This Christmas Present
by Sabari
Summary: When Bridge insists that a Ranger's life is in danger, the others are at first skeptical. But as the search for the Ranger continues, it becomes evident that if the missing is not found in time, they will be dead by Christmas. Non-slash/non-pairing. Probably a little AU, but not on purpose.
1. Prologue

**_For Granny, who will probably never read this and wouldn't like it if she did.  
And for everyone who struggles to release what should be let go, and hold onto that which should never be forgotten.  
May there be a light to guide you on your path, so that you may find your way._**

* * *

" _Maybe all the people who say ghosts don't exist are just afraid to admit that they do."  
-_The Never Ending Story ** _(Michael Ende)_**

* * *

We don't get to choose how and when we die. Even when someone decides to cut the thin thread that binds life to this Earth, in their heart they are already dead, it is this death of soul that brings the destruction of flesh and bone which follows. When death comes, it does so in the time and place of its own choosing. The beginning and the end are the only points of life where we are without choice, when the cold hand of Fate lays itself upon our shoulder and removes all options.

It may not be our choice what happens to us, but what we do with what happens in our lives is our choice.

* * *

Pain.

That's what Sky Tate, SPD's Blue Ranger, woke to. Pain rippled through him, ticking down seconds in his head and tearing at him, leaving him disoriented and short of breath. The right side of his face felt stiff, a source of pain had sunk its teeth into him near the temple, and by the taste of the crusty substance at the corner of his mouth, it was also a source of blood.

He tried to open his eyes, but at first was unable to do so, his lids fluttered like moths trapped in a bottle, but he couldn't find the energy to actually force them apart so he could see. When he finally did, it seemed the effort had been wasted, for there was nothing to see. Nothing but darkness of a deep, ominous shade, for a moment convincing him that he had gone blind, until he realized he could faintly make out a shape, a phantom figure that was black, blacker than the darkness.

He opened his mouth to speak, for he knew this figure, knew it was no phantom at all, but a kind of monster, come to torment him for reasons that he did not understand, to make his life Hell for some sinister purpose whose details were beyond his ken.

But Sky found his mouth was dry, and it felt like some of the blood on his face had also gone down his throat, leaving it rough as sandpaper and giving even the air he breathed through his mouth a metallic taste. Blood from inside prevented him from breathing through his nose at all.

The only thing he accomplished was a thin, bird-like squeak. It was evidently enough.

In a rush, the phantom moved towards him and he flinched back on instinct from the hand which raised above his head, a silent threat of violence. But then he heard a _snick_ sound, and a naked light bulb overhead clicked on. The raised hand grasped a glinting, polished chain which served as light switch. It held, claw-like, to the chain as though it belonged to a hawk with a rabbit in its talons.

In the new light, Sky found himself blinded in a different fashion, only when his sight returned to him he wished suddenly for the darkness to return. Baleful, glaring eyes hovered before him in a shadowed, sharply angled countenance, a scowling face aglow with malevolence, a hostile presence seething with hatred. At least in the dark he didn't have to see what had come for him.

"Why are you doing this?" Sky managed, shocked to hear the fear in his cracked voice, appalled by how much it shook, betraying what he would have liked to keep secret even from himself.

The fear was suffocating him, he was drowning in it. Or maybe that was just the blood in his throat. Terror had gripped him with hooks as sharp as the talons of the aforementioned bird of prey, was tearing at him with razor beak, ripping him open, leaving him more raw inside than any amount of external pain. The pounding in his head, equal measures fear and pain, beat out each passing second, forcing him to take note of the time slipping away at once more rapidly and much slower than he would have liked.

The figure before him offered up no answer, but merely grinned, the expression ghoulish in the bad lighting, punctuated by the continuous _drip-drip-drip_ sound of water escaping from a metal pipe and pinging on the grimy concrete floor, the sound echoing hollowly.

Sky didn't remember closing his eyes, but he realized that he had and fought to open them again. He didn't want to turn away, to surrender to fear so deep he couldn't face it, because to do that was to admit to weakness, such weakness as he had never given in to before and did not intend to now.

Bleeding not withstanding, fear not withstanding, his status as captive not withstanding, Sky nevertheless refused to give in to the pain, because to do so was to admit that he was a victim, to admit to himself if to no one else that here he was not a Ranger, not a defender of Earth.

And that he could not -would not- do. Not now, not ever.

On opening his eyes, he saw that his captor had moved away from the pooling light, back away into the deep shadowy recesses of the room. He could see only faintly the outline, heard the clink of metal on metal, but the light-bulb overhead prevented him from being able to squint into the shadows and see what was being done. He supposed maybe he didn't want to know.

But there was one thing he _did_ want to know.

"Why me?" he demanded, gratified to hear the fear overridden by a hot flush of anger, "Why did you pick me? _Why_?" it was the only question he wanted an answer to.

He didn't expect an answer, but he finally got one.

With surprising swiftness, his captor swung around toward him and practically flew at him like the Reaper towards a soul attempting to flee from Death, nearly punching him in the face with an object held in the claw-like hands, a flat, smooth object that was pressed up so close Sky had to cross his eyes to see it at all, but it was so up close that it was indistinct, blurry even.

"A photograph?" he asked, guessing.

He could make out colors. Pale, maybe pastel yellow, streaks of deeper brown, surrounded by green, light blue in a creamy-near white, bright red nearer the bottom of the photo.

"Her name was Amber Maitlin," the harsh, whispery voice snarled at him, each word an accusation, the whole sentence a violent attack, "She was sixteen years old. Do you remember her?" spit hit Sky in the face, the mouth of the speaker was so close to him, "Do you remember the girl you murdered?"

"Murdered?" Sky asked, incredulous, wincing as the spit struck near his eye, "I never killed _anyone_."

"Really?" the voice was sarcastic, but Sky was relieved when his captor eased back out of his face, "I suppose she died of natural causes then. A healthy, young, vibrant girl, just died all on her own."

"I don't know," Sky said earnestly, "I have no idea who she was."

"No i-.. no idea? No idea!?" the whisper was exchanged for a loud shriek, "You murdered her! You killed her and you have no idea who she was!? DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE!?"

Sky flinched as the accusation rang off the walls, ricocheting and reverberating deafeningly.

He could see the photo now. A blond girl with beautiful blue eyes, wearing a red dress in front of a green backdrop, a dazzling white smile on her lovely face.  
Dead now.

She had been beautiful, yes, and her face was lit up with the kind of radiance that couldn't been applied with hours of makeup, but only from years of living with joy and laughter as the central themes of life. Lovely and probably funny in life. But Sky didn't know her face any more than her name.

"Who was she?" he asked, the throbbing in his head having momentarily knocked from his memory the fact that his captor had already given name to this face.

"She," the snarl became low, quiet, more dangerous as his captor slunk towards him, right up into his personal space, " _She_ was the innocent girl you killed."

And then Sky's captor swept away into the darkness, which seemed to welcome and swallow him up. Not just to the corner this time, but up the stairs and right out of the room, through a door, leaving the photo face up on the floor, where it sank into the quarter inch of water standing on the rough concrete.

Amber Maitlin had been beautiful. But Sky didn't know her. He certainly hadn't killed her.

His attention was riveted to the photograph until he was distracted by the sound of someone, presumably his captor, returning and lugging something that appeared to be heavy. Thudding steps on the stairs, the product of boots on concrete, approached, and Sky's dark captor slid out of the liquid shadows, eyes ablaze with righteous or mad fury, but the box-like object he held in his arms was more frightening still.

It was the battery from a car, and Sky was smart enough to know what it was for.

"No," he spoke the word, but it lacked conviction, so he said it again, and looked into the eyes of his captor, desperate to see some hesitation, some uncertainty, some humanity in that savage countenance, but he found none, none at all, no remorse, no conscience, only hate.

"No! I didn't murder her! I didn't kill _anyone_! You've got to believe me! I have no idea who you are or who she was or how she died! I've never done anything to you! Or to her!"

With a _thud_ more final and fatal than any Sky could have predicted, his captor set the car battery on a lumpy, mostly dry portion of the concrete floor. Sky felt that thud all the way to his core.

He knew then that there was no reasoning with this person, and that he had no hope of escape.

"I will make you suffer for what you've done," his captor said in an easy, reasonable, almost parental voice that clashed with the words, "You will suffer, and then you will beg. You will beg, like she never had the chance to. Beg me to make it stop, make it end. Beg me for your life."

"I haven't _done_ anything," Sky said, but it wasn't to convince this maniac, not for any reason at all, not unless there was someone recording the events happening in the universe, someone taking down testimony for the inspection of some supernatural court complete with judge and jurors.

His captor ignored him, as if he hadn't spoken at all, busy setting up and talking.

"And when you're finished with your begging, when you're too broken even for that, when the only hope you have left is that you will die... then you will know. You will remember her. Then, and only then, you will die," there was a pause, where the baleful eyes glanced in Sky's direction, then he finished what he had to say, "Don't worry though. You will be dead by Christmas. I guarantee it."

* * *

 _ **A/N: Set post "Robotpalooza"  
**_

 ** _I don't normally make promises about my stories, but I feel somewhat compelled to where this one is concern. That promise is this: the entire story isn't so completely dark as the prologue nor so entirely devoid of anything Christmassy._**

 ** _As always, this story is completely written. As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N)._**

 ** _This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading._**

 ** _Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer._**

 ** _Do feel free to point out typos, I check my stories before publishing, but I admit my imperfection and would welcome the opportunity to correct any mistakes I may have made._**

 _ **While character/event facts stated in this story are not intended to conflict with any in the series, it should be noted that it had been three or four years since I watched the series start to finish at the time of the writing. For a lot of it, I relied on internet inquiries, and many of those were either nonspecific or possibly inaccurate.**_

 _ **As with last year's Christmas fic, all the chapter titles (aside from the prologue and epilogue) are lyrics from Christmas songs. If you want to know what one is, feel free to ask, as many of them have to be a little vague in order to apply to the story as well as avoid using the same song twice. So far, I haven't had to repeat, but if a yearly Christmas fic becomes tradition, it'll happen sooner or later. There's only so many Christmas songs out there :P  
**_


	2. Mr Grinch

_Fourteen Hours earlier..._

"You're really a Grinch, you know that, don't you?"

It was a clear, icy day, less than a week before Christmas. Jack Landors and Sky Tate were jogging along a trail about four miles out from the base. The red, sandy gravel crunched under their shoes as they ran in perfect rhythm, synchronized like a team of carriage horses, even their breath clouded the air in twin plumes, leaving a trail in the frosty air every bit as clear as the prints of their shoe treads on the ground. They had long ago exhausted the amusement of racing one another.

It had been Sky's remark about the Grinch, and now Jack responded.

"Hey man, if anything, I'm a Scrooge," he said between strides and breaths.

There was a momentary pause as they swung into a turn in the path together. Sky, at Jack's right, had the outside of the turn. He sped up subtly to remain precisely at his jogging partner's side. They had jogged all the way out this far, and didn't really have the breath for proper conversation.

Normally, they didn't say anything. They got along better when they didn't say anything to each other.

Sky grudgingly accepted that Jack was a competent Red Ranger, as Jack unhappily conceded that -just maybe- the team was really better for having Sky as Blue Ranger. They didn't have to like each other, but they did have to work together.

"What's the difference?" Sky asked, adding after a beat, "Between Scrooge and the Grinch, I mean."

Frankly, Jack was surprised to discover that he and Sky had any activities in common. But going for a long run in the morning, especially during cold weather, was common ground. As the inevitable yuletide carol season came rushing on like an out-of-control freight train, Jack had anticipated that he and Sky would also have an opinion of Christmas in common.

"The Grinch wanted to steal Christmas from everybody, so they'd all be just as miserable as he was," Jack explained, though it took him awhile because he had to pause every three words or so, "Scrooge just wanted to ignore it, avoid it, not participate."

Actually, in all truth, Jack didn't enjoy running. Unlike Sky, he didn't wake up in the morning with text from the SPD handbook written across his brain. He didn't eat, sleep, dream, live SPD regulations every second of every day. But what he _did_ do, at least now, was try and be a good leader for his team. That meant not only setting a good example by running to keep in shape, but also to clear his head. Nothing settled you out like a long morning run. Afterward, you just didn't have the energy to be excessively emotional about anything.

"Oh," was the grunted reply.

Sky was one of those people born without a sense of humor. You got the impression that he'd never been a kid at all, just churned out of some Power Ranger making machine and slipped into a uniform on the first day. He didn't talk about his past if he could avoid it, he didn't make jokes, he didn't socialize when he could get out of it, he didn't have fun. Jack sometimes wondered if he was even capable of it.

Sky was a natural born Grinch or Scrooge if ever there had been one. Heck, he ought to have been both. Or maybe something even worse. The guy was a dyed in the wool curmudgeon, he had absolutely no business showing anything akin to holiday spirit, merriment or good cheer.

"Oh? What do you mean 'oh'? What, you never read _A Christmas Carol_ or the other one?" Jack declined to mention the other book by name, specifically because it had a long title and he preferred to save his breath in preparation for whatever Sky was going to say.

"Read? Of course I've read them," Sky replied, and then put in the zinger, "I'm just surprised you have. You don't seem like the culture type."

"Culture? What culture? How is Dr. Seuss culture?" Jack wanted to know.

"I made a reference, you understood it, and corrected me on it. That, my friend, is culture."

Jack risked taking his eyes off the path ahead for a moment to look at Sky. Sky's face was serious, all except for his expressive blue eyes, which couldn't have kept a secret if all of Earth had depended on it. Maybe there was some truth to the saying that eyes were the windows to the soul. At the very least, these particular bright orbs were the window to Sky's inner thoughts.

"I don't believe this," Jack said, slowing to a stop so he could shake his head in disbelief.

"What?" Sky stopped, chest heaving as he gulped frigid air like it was water, seeming to drink it in rather than just inhale it.

"You just made a joke," Jack said, "You're making fun of me."

Sky's brow furrowed. His entire face crumpled into a puzzled expression, all except for his eyes, which were still brightly lit and amused. Whatever talents (or faults) Sky might have, being a good liar wasn't one of them.

"I didn't make a joke," Sky said unconvincingly, "I just stated a fact."

"But you had _fun_ while doing it," Jack said, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "You have to admit that. You enjoyed it, and that's like making a joke."

Sky shook his head, then abruptly took off at an easy lope. He tossed a parting shot over his shoulder.

"I admit nothing. Now hurry up, we'll be late for the briefing!"

"I'm right and you know it!" Jack shouted, "Hey, get back here! I'm not finished with you!"

There were times, just a few, but more lately than before, that Jack found it in himself to admit -at least privately- that he didn't entirely hate everything about Sky, and not every single second of their time together was spent in mutual seething and insufferable awkward silence.

* * *

"All I'm saying is that it's wrong," Syd Drew said, "When I was growing up, it always snowed in winter, but especially on Christmas. And here we are five days away, it's been under thirty degrees every day for the past two weeks, and... nothing. Not so much as a flake. People are putting up plastic snowmen. _Plastic_ snowmen."

Sky and Jack, newly returned from their morning jog, exchanged looks. Syd had been on a wishing for snow kick about as long as Sky had been issuing seasonally appropriate salutations. Right now, she was voicing her concerns to Elizabeth 'Z' Delgado, who had no sympathy.

"What? You think Emperor Grumm is holding back the snow?" Z asked.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Syd replied reasonably.

"Neither would I. But if he were doing something like that, I'm sure we'd know about it by now. And, looking at global weather patterns, everything looks normal. This just isn't our year for snow."

"It won't be Christmas without snow," Syd pouted.

"Look," Jack interjected without being invited to join the conversation, "Where _I_ grew up, it never snowed. As a kid, I couldn't imagine anything stupider than dreaming of a white Christmas."

"Oh, so they did have Christmas on planet Jack Landors. And here I was beginning to wonder," Syd remarked.

"Really? You too?" Jack shook his head, then turned to Z, "And I suppose you also have some cute comment about my lack of interest in what is clearly a commercial holiday where people with money buy things for other people who also have money but wouldn't buy for themselves, give those items as gifts and pretend to be nice to one another for just one day when every other day is spent fighting and avoiding each other."

"Whoa, Grinch, much?" Syd crossed her arms.

"Scrooge, actually," Sky interjected, but nobody paid him any mind.

"It's not just _one_ day," Syd continued, "People get into the holiday spirit as early as November. You can _feel_ the difference in the air. Everyone's happy."

"Happy? Pretend happy, you mean," Jack said, "The only thing in the air is deceit. Nobody's happier in December than at any other time of the year."

"Not if there's no snow," Syd agreed.

"Snow doesn't make Christmas, Syd," Sky interrupted, and this time got the attention he wanted, "Snow's just snow. Frozen water fallen from clouds. Just that, nothing more."

"Then what _does_ make Christmas, O Wise One?" Z wanted to know, then nodded toward Jack, "And please tell me you're not a stick in the mud like Jack here."

"Oh, here we go. Hey, look everybody, the holiday special is on!" Jack called, but the only other person in the room was Bridge Carson, and he had his ear to the floor and seemed oblivious of them.

"No holiday special," Sky corrected Jack mildly, "If you don't get Christmas, I can't explain it to you, so I won't even try. You don't like it, I won't try to make you. I'll make fun of you, but I won't try to change you."

"Ah ha! You admit it! You _were_ having fun earlier!"

Instead of answering, Sky looked over at Bridge, who was still kneeling on the floor with one ear against it, eyes closed in concentration, gloved hands flat on the linoleum surface.

"What's with him?" Sky asked, nodding in Bridge's direction.

"He says the universe is wrong," Z answered with a sigh, "He's been doing that all morning."

"Not the universe," Bridge corrected from down on the floor, "Just the energy."

He hopped to his feet and brushed imaginary dust from his gloves.

"Oh, that's right," Syd said, rolling her eyes in Jack's direction, "The spirit of Christmas present is wavering."

"What?" Bridge sounded shocked, and even slightly appalled, "No. It's fine. The Christmas Spirit is just _fine_. It's the energies of people, where they're all inextricably intertwined and connected, where the source of joy and peace and harmony exists that's wrong. The vibrations aren't good. It's like when Rhyme and Reason were banished to the Castle in the Air. Nothing makes sense."

"Who are Rhyme and Reason?" Jack asked.

"So much for culture," Sky shook his head with disapproval.

"Better question," Jack said, ignoring him and turning to Bridge instead, "You're saying there's an actual Christmas Spirit?"

"It doesn't make any sense," Bridge said, his gaze seeming to be set on something more distant than the gray wall he was now facing, "The spirit is fine, the auras are all fine, everything and everyone together, but it's wrong... there's something... wrong," Bridge turned towards Jack, who saw for the first time the desperation in his eyes.

Bridge's antics were often funny, and nobody could understand what he was doing or talking about. Most of the time, anyway. But it wasn't funny at all to see him so deeply unsettled, so ill at ease. Now Jack saw subtler signs of it. Bridge shifted his weight nervously, the frenetic movements of his hands seemed more like he was trying to shake or wipe something off than supplement his words with gestures. His brow was furrowed with worry.

"You're really upset about this, aren't you?" Jack inquired gently.

"Upset? Of _course_ I'm upset," Bridge turned toward the wall, then back to Jack and the others, "You can't feel it? There's something off, like everything's the wrong color, the wrong note being played in a song. You can't _feel_ any of it?"

It was long established that Bridge was aware of the world in a way the others simply were not. Bridge seemed to have perfect knowledge of his difference from the others. He would patiently, if incomprehensibly, explain what he saw and felt, knowing the others couldn't see it or feel it. He had never, not once, asked Jack if he could feel the color or sound of energy.

"No," Jack admitted to Bridge, "I don't feel anything like that."

* * *

 ** _A/N: Jack and Sky obviously are referring to_ How the Grinch Stole Christmas _(Dr Seuss) and_ A Christmas Carol _(Charles Dickens)_ _. Perhaps less obvious to some is the reference Bridge is making to_ The Phantom Toll Booth _(Norton Juster).  
_**


	3. The World is Well Disguised

The briefing was a rehash of one they'd heard before, and Jack hadn't cared for it much the first time.

"You all know that Emperor Grumm has been unusually quiet lately," Kat Manx was saying, her ever present clipboard held near her chest, "but we have no reason to suspect that he is taking the holidays off. As you should know, few aliens celebrate Christmas-"

"Lucky them," Jack muttered under his breath.

"-but what you may be unaware of," Kat continued, pretending not to have heard the interruption, "is that most aliens arrive to Earth with absolutely no knowledge of the holiday. They can be startled by the bright lights, frightened of decorations such as plastic reindeer and snowmen."

"Plastic men, you mean," Syd whispered, but Kat ignored her as she had Jack.

"There are even races who find the idea of bringing a tree indoors to be offensive."

"I can see how tree murder could be considered offensive," Z remarked.

"It's not just the live trees," Chief Anubis Cruger told her, "There is at least one community of normally peaceful aliens who take exception to the idea of manufacturing and displaying fake trees."

"The point is," Kat said, slightly raising her voice to reclaim possession of her briefing, "these are seasonal issues. In addition to the normal criminal element, there are also Christmas criminals, who normally wouldn't cause any trouble. Some are out to make problems on purpose, but some are just frightened or confused. If and when you are called upon to deal with alien related problems, keep in mind that your apparent criminal may not be vandalizing colored lights out of spite, but because they don't realize those lights aren't a threat. Be prepared not only to make arrests, but also offer explanations. Newcomers to Earth can be thrown by its customs."

"There is, as always, another side to the story," Cruger said, taking over the briefing, "As there are aliens who are offended by the idea of fake trees, there are also humans who are unwilling to share their holiday with others. Usually these people already have problems with aliens and may have criminal records relating to that. But there are those who appear to have no issue with aliens normally, but who react violently when they see aliens participating in a uniquely Earthen holiday. They may attack -or otherwise harass- aliens they meet, especially in shopping centers. So just because we get a report of an alien causing a problem, don't assume. Assess the situation when you get there. Your victim may, in fact, be the perpetrator."

* * *

"Where's your Christmas spirit now?" Jack asked of Bridge, who failed to answer.

They had been dismissed from the briefing and were walking back to the rec room.

"Hey," Syd protested from behind Jack, "a few bad eggs don't mean Christmas is a sham, Jack."

"Don't they?" Jack tossed over his shoulder, "You guys are claiming that there's a special feeling, a special energy, just for Christmas. I don't feel it, and obviously there are also other people who don't. And some of the ones who feel it, they don't feel peace and love. They feel anger and get violent. How does your wonderful idea of a perfect holiday explain that?"

"Simple," Bridge volunteered.

"Simple? From you?" Jack raised his eyebrows, "I can't wait to hear this."

Bridge didn't say anything at first, until Sky nudged him with his elbow.

"Go for it," Sky told him.

"Okay," Bridge said, sounding a bit more hesitant than usual to explain what he thought about things, "Think of it like magnets."

"Magnets," Jack nodded thoughtfully, "Okay, I'm with you so far."

They had by this time stopped walking, and were standing around in the empty hallway. It seemed an odd place for this sort of discussion, but it was the sort of discussion you couldn't have while walking either.

"Well, not really like magnets," Bridge said, "You see, magnets are attracted to their opposite, not their match. So it's less like magnets and more like... well, more like emotions. You see-"

"Skip to the part where this starts making sense," Jack interrupted.

"Right. Okay," Bridge paused, evidently running several sentences in his head before finding the place he wanted to continue from, "People like spending time with people who are like them. For kids, that means other kids who share a favorite color or animal or something. When they get older, people tend to spend time with people who like the same foods, the same sports team, the same hobbies. It's not so much having the same opinion of things, a lot of people can get along even if they have different political opinions. Some of them even have discussions about politics that don't ruin anything. But that's only if they both enjoy having the discussions."

"Bridge," Jack broke in again, "What's that got to do with Christmas?"

"I'm getting there," Bridge said, then sighed and stopped talking.

He was thinking again, evidently determined to -if only this once- make himself understood.

"Okay, here's the point: good people respond positively to goodness."

"That I could follow," Jack said, "Now go on."

"Because nobody is all good or all bad, not like in movies, you get different degrees of positive response. Because the spirit behind Christmas is overwhelmingly good, even perfectly if you'll accept that, even people who are only a little good are improved by contact with it."

"Sure, we'll pretend that makes sense," Jack nodded.

"But people who are bad react negatively to goodness. The more bad they are, the more negatively they react. They see all the happiness around them and, because they themselves can't have it or feel it, it makes them angry and they want to control or destroy it. They want to buy it off a shelf or blow it away with a shotgun. They can't stand seeing that they themselves are empty, so they decide to take it out on the holiday, and anyone who benefits from it."

"Okay," Jack said, taking a deep breath, "Now I just want you to explain one more thing to me."

"Sure," Bridge agreed.

"What's with _you_ and Christmas? You're Jewish."

"That doesn't mean I can't feel goodwill when it comes my way," Bridge told him, "If somebody says 'Merry Christmas', that's not all that different from 'have a nice day', except it means more to them, and they usually really mean it, so it's not as casual and offhand. If people can find a reason to look for miracles, to see something or someone beyond themselves and make an extra effort to make the world a nicer place, if only for a little while, why should I get in the way of that?"

"Nicely said, Bridge," Sky commented, "I feel the same way when you say 'Happy Hanukkah."

"See?" Bridge said, "The only reason people who celebrate different holidays can't get along is because they want only their own to be special. Those people aren't the good ones. They're the selfish ones. The good ones are happy that you're happy and want to help contribute to you being happy. By giving of themselves, they receive a greater gift than can be wrapped in a box."

"I'm sorry, Sky," Jack said, "I should have known the holiday special speech wouldn't be coming from you," he turned to Bridge, "You're really weird, you do know that, right?"

"I know," Bridge nodded agreeably, "But I'm also right."

"There's one flaw in your story," Jack disagreed.

"Really? What is it?"

"Me," Jack said, "I'm happy. Sure, I'm happy. But not any more or less happy than any other time of the year. A little annoyed by this obsession afflicting the masses, but that's got nothing to do with whether it's Christmas or not, that's just because people are all making a big deal out of nothing, not to mention the part where the worst of humanity shows up in all the greed this particular holiday breeds. By your theory, I ought to feel something. Different, either better or worse. But I don't."

"That's because you don't want to," Bridge replied, "You've closed your mind and heart, so nothing can get in. That's why you don't feel anything."

"Hey, _I'm_ open minded," Jack protested, trying to deny the sting Bridge's words had, "And I got a lotta love for people. You remember what I was doin' before I got roped into this SPD bit, don't you?"

"We try not to," Sky said, patting Jack's shoulder, "If we did, then we'd have to arrest you. Now, I have somewhere I'd like to be today. I asked Cruger, he told me to clear it with you."

Jack felt he'd dropped a stitch somewhere. The subject had abruptly changed, even though he didn't feel like they had finished the conversation. Floundering, it took him a second to answer.

"Where are you going? You got a hot date or something?"

"Or something," Sky replied, looking away, a shadow falling across his face that had nothing at all to do with the lighting.

Jack sensed that Sky didn't want to talk about it. Whatever he was going to do, it evidently wasn't going to be happy, and he didn't want to share it with the others. Jack tried to think when Sky had last asked for a day off. He came up with the answer: roughly never. Sky lived every second for SPD, he had no outside interests, not even a single hobby that didn't tie directly to being SPD.

"Okay, sure. Just make sure you keep your Morpher on you in case of an emergency."

"Always," Sky replied, then added, "Thanks, Jack."

Sky walked quickly away from them down the hall, and Jack jerked a questioning thumb in the direction he'd gone.

"What's with him?"

Z looked just as quizzical as Jack, but Syd and Bridge knew something they were evidently hesitant to say. It was Syd who eventually answered, perhaps because her friendship with Sky didn't run anywhere near as deep as Bridge's did, so she felt able to speak about it.

"The last time Sky saw his father alive," she said quietly, "it was five days before Christmas. An officer came on Christmas Eve to say Sky's father had been killed. But, for Sky, his father died the day he went away. He always spends this day away from SPD. I think, if only on this day, it actually hurts him to be here when his father isn't anymore."

Jack felt more deeply puzzled than ever. He understood now why Sky wanted to leave, but what he didn't get, couldn't begin to understand, was why that event in Sky's life hadn't ruined Christmas for him forever.

"If his father died near Christmas, how come he's so high on it?" Jack asked.

Syd opened her mouth to answer, but Bridge spoke before she could.

"You'd have to ask him. All that matters to me is that he _does_ love Christmas, and that gives him a little comfort at a time when he's really hurting. That's good enough for me."

It seemed like that was the clearest, simplest, most sensible thing Jack had ever heard Bridge say.


	4. Every Heart Prepare

Darkness curled at the edges of Bridge's vision. Shimmering waves, like a heat haze but with color, came at him, beat at his senses, a swirling, disorienting fog of auras, the energy of everyone and everything, dancing lights in a world much too dark. Now the lights were painful, too bright, too intense, and the smooth rivers of energy were churned into a raging torrent, in which Bridge felt like he was drowning. It was impossible to believe that he was the only one who could feel it.

Energy was always brighter at this time of year, building up to something momentous just beyond his ken. But it wasn't painful like this, discordant, disjointed, an assault on his senses. It was never this strong. He felt like he was being physically beaten by it. The realm into which he saw, often against his will, was trying to tell him something. Not just him. It was loud enough that everyone should have heard it. So much noise, so much clutter in his vision, but everyone else was deaf and blind to it.

He knew that everything would settle down if he could just understand what it meant, but he'd been trying all morning, trying to find the source, find the reason, but he was no closer to understanding why the entire universe was suddenly upset, why the millions upon millions of tiny light threads which bound every person, place and thing to one another were thrumming, pulsing, shaking as if they were subject to the physics of stormy winds.

All the strings were connected and, like a bad note struck on an instrument, the vibration at the source was magnified by the journey along the string, until the entire instrument and not just that single piece of it had become something ugly and unpleasant.

It struck him with physical force, a blow to the chest, sending a feeling like electrical current through him, pain lashing up and down his nerves, like lightning but with no outside source, pain so intense Bridge's vision went completely black and he staggered into the wall of the hallway he'd been walking down.

And then something cold, something hard, something sharp, pierced into his side like a knife blade. Involuntarily, he clutched the unseen wound, and sank to the floor with a strangled cry, the electric pain still singing through his veins, bringing forth star burst patterns to his blacked out vision.

He smelled something like mold then, heard a sound like a faucet dripping, what sounded like a bug zapper too, smelled something burning, like the mold, felt in between convulsive shocks to the system hard metal and cold water, darkness and light flickering around one another, chasing back and forth, steel, water, cold, light, dark, burning, swinging light, a face in the dark, twisted by hate, so much hate, too much hate, too much for his body to contain, too much of it, flowing out of him like poison from a serpent's bite. So much of it, so damn much.

A scream of anguish, familiar, painful to hear.

Bridge's eyes flashed open and he came gasping to reality as if he had been deep underwater, seeing everything around him, including the concerned face of a cadet who had touched his arm and tried to rouse him, asking him if he was okay.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Bridge said hurriedly, shaking as he pulled himself to his feet with the help of the wall, "I'm just fine. I need to find Sky. Jack. Sky... Jack... one of them. Both of them. Either one of them. I'm fine."

He staggered off down the hall, weaving wildly around invisible -and possibly nonexistent- obstacles, looking for Jack.

* * *

"Tate? Schuyler Tate?"

Sky hadn't been expecting anyone to be here. On a cold day like this, the only people who would come here were people like him. And how many people had lost their father today?

The cemetery was normally kept green, even in the summer, but now the neatly mown grass had turned to a crisp, pastel yellow-brown color, falling dormant for winter's duration. The flanking trees were black and their branches stretched bare toward the sky. Carefully planted evergreens did little to dispel the sense of cold and death about the place, but Sky didn't mind. Whatever people might think, no amount of lush vegetation or bright flowers could cover the fact that this was the final resting place of the dead, and that the living were here because of those they had loved and lost, the place in their heart formerly occupied by the dearly departed was icy and hollow even in the middle of spring, when everything was brought to life and made new once more. Everything, that is, except for those who had died. The dead never came back. Sky knew this, as everyone who has lost a loved one knows it.

In this hushed place of death, Sky did not expect anyone. He much less expected them to call him by name. Even less, to call him by his full name. No one called him Schuyler.

He looked up to see a tall man, six two or maybe six three. The man was thin, but no more so than Sky himself. His salt and pepper hair was close cropped, his skin had a way of settling about his face that denied any possible attempt at guessing his age except for the obvious fact that he was over thirty and under sixty. Sky didn't recognize the man, and the hawk-like eyes unsettled him.

"I'm Sky Tate," he said, resisting the urge to back up a step as the man strode towards him, instead turning to face the oncoming stranger, feeling tense and wary for reasons he couldn't define.

"SPD B-Squad's Blue Ranger, Tate?" the man persisted, at last having reached the graveside.

"What's it to you?" Sky had never been one for tact, and he made no secret of his caution.

"My name is Kevin Mitchell," the man said, then extended his hand, "I was a friend of your father's."

Sky was of a suspicious nature, but he accepted the handshake because he knew that about himself. He knew he had everyone pegged for a threat, even people whom he should have trusted from the start. It was just who he was. He didn't drop his guard, but he allowed for the possibility that this man had known his father. He'd met a lot of his father's friends only after his father's death, and had come to realize little by little that the man he had known was only a fraction of the man that had been his father.

"How did you know him?" Sky asked, more interested in information than striking up an acquaintance with this man; he wanted proof that this man was who he said he was.

"Oh let's see," the man sighed thoughtfully, "Well I guess the first time I saw him was during that quake... you must have been about three years old then."

"I remember," Sky said, "It was so bad that SPD was called in to assist with rescue operations."

"Yeah. I was a fireman at the time," Mitchell said reflectively, "Damn good one too. Or at least, I thought so. Up until I climbed on some rubble to try and reach a boy trapped behind a steel girder, put my foot down on something I thought was solid and broke right through. Fell about fifteen feet through this collapsed building, broke my leg and everything. Didn't think anyone would ever find me. But your dad did, and he dug me out. He saved my life."

"My dad did a lot of that," Sky said, "He was Red Ranger."

Sky wasn't sure why he'd said that. It sounded idiotic, even to him. His father had been Red Ranger even then, had always been Red Ranger, and Mitchell undoubtedly knew it. But Sky wasn't good at socializing, and he was feeling especially antisocial right now. That's why he'd come here.

"He certainly was," Mitchell agreed without hesitation, "I owe him a lot."

* * *

Having disentangled himself from the Christmas fan club, Jack found a book on the coffee table in the rec room, having been forced to drop it (probably mid-sentence) during some emergency the nature of which he couldn't entirely recall. It seemed like it had probably been a couple of weeks ago.

Now he picked up the slightly tattered book, sank down onto the couch and tried to figure out which was the last sentence he'd read before the alarm went off.

He didn't _hate_ Christmas, he really didn't. He was honestly happy that Christmas made his friends happy. But he was a little frustrated that they couldn't be just as happy for him being indifferent to it. He accepted them as they were, it seemed like it was about time that they accepted some part of him for... what he was. Was that so much to ask? It didn't seem like too much to ask.

He tried to focus on the book, but his thoughts repeatedly circled back to the conversation of the morning, everything that had been said about Christmas, most particularly by Bridge, who didn't even celebrate Christmas himself. He'd told Jack as much when Jack had made a joke about Christmas coming early. That incident and the present seemed at odds with each other. But, of course, that was Bridge, perpetually confusing everyone around him in every way possible.

He almost laughed aloud at the sentence in the book that his eyes finally focused on.

" _Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic."_

It was so applicable to his present reality that it lifted his spirits and he felt better for having read it. It sounded just like something Bridge would say, except that it actually made some kind of sense, whereas Bridge just never quite did. Somehow it made Jack's frustration seem ridiculous and he couldn't believe he'd been annoyed about other people liking something that he didn't. It was stupid, every bit as stupid as dreaming of a white Christmas had seemed to him when he was a little kid.

He'd caught himself before he spoke too much or too strongly on the subject, realizing that there was nothing to be gained by trivializing Christmas, but it had shocked him that he'd said anything at all. What was to be gained by ruining the feeling of Christmas for those who had it? Even if it was false hope, false happiness, greed thinly disguised as merriment, family memories made at the expense of contact with a reality in which all relatives hated each other... why had he felt the need to convey what he felt about Christmas to everybody else? It wasn't like their enthusiasm or joy in the season was hurting anybody. And it wasn't like the world would be greatly improved by people not believing in the positive power of Christmas. The only reason Jack could think of was that he just wanted to be proven right. That was it, nothing more valuable or tangible than his own selfish ego.

He didn't like this revelation about himself, and decided he'd have to work on his pride.

Maybe later.

Just as he was settling in to read the rest of the book, Jack was again interrupted. This time, it wasn't the alarm going off, but Bridge careening into the room shouting Jack's name. With more concern than actual surprise, Jack watched as Bridge flung himself through the doorway, spun sharply to his left and smacked his head into the wall right next to it. Spinning again, planting his back against the wall, one hand on his forehead and the other pointing at Jack, Bridge repeated Jack's name for a final time, almost as if it was an accusation.

"Jack!"

"Yes..." Jack said, giving Bridge a nudge when he didn't add anything to the statement of Jack's name.

"Jack!" Bridge repeated, still pointing, "Jack, Sky's in trouble."

Jack sometimes doubted Bridge's sanity, but he had learned not to question his perception in matters such as this. Without a glance at it, Jack dropped the open book -pages down- on the couch.

"Show me," Jack said, and followed Bridge from the room without another word.

* * *

 _ **A/N: For those of you who are wondering, the book Jack is reading is**_ **Dune** _ **(Frank Herbert).**_


	5. Red as any Blood

"He was here. He stood right here," Bridge insisted, while the other Rangers looked on.

Syd and Z had asked for no more explanation than Jack had, but now they were rethinking things. Bridge was circling a gravestone, but it didn't have Sky's father's name on it, and it seemed highly unlikely that Sky would have stood in front of a stranger's grave.

"Bridge, I'm tryin' to be nice here..." Jack said, "...Bridge, I'm telling you. Do not. Do _not_ put your face on the..." he trailed off and threw up his hands as Bridge knelt and leaned his head against the gravestone, "Fine... whatever. You just keep doing that."

"Sh!" Bridge requested, "I'm listening."

"Listening," Jack ran a hand down his face, turning towards Syd and Z, who obviously shared his embarrassment at Bridge's behavior, even if they were the only ones to see it, "He's listening."

"I can see that," Z said quietly, arms crossed in front of her, one foot ahead of the other in an impatient stance, "I thought he said that Sky was in trouble."

"He did," Jack nodded.

"Okay, then _where_ is Sky?" Z asked, tapping her foot and then freeing a hand to make a gesture that encompassed the cemetery, "Obviously he's not here."

"Give Bridge a chance, guys," Syd pleaded, "He's probably just confused. You know he gets that way sometimes. Sky probably was here. Not _here_ here, but here in the cemetery."

Jack sighed wearily and let the tension out of his shoulders, trying not to be annoyed with Bridge. Syd was probably correct, poor Bridge was in the right neighborhood but at the wrong address. But just because he was wrong about this, it didn't mean he was wrong about Sky's being in trouble.

Jack turned back and walked over to Bridge.

"Okay, Bridge," Jack took Bridge by the shoulders, pulling the startled Green Ranger to his feet, "Look, this isn't where Sky's father is buried. Sky was probably at this cemetery, but he isn't now. Bridge, we need to know where Sky is _now_. You said he was in trouble. We need to help him, right?"

Bridge nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the gravestone.

"Alright, that's very good, Bridge. Now, what I need you to do is find where Sky is now, right? You're his friend, where would he go after his father's grave?"

Only when Bridge finally looked up from the gravestone did Jack risk letting go of him. Bridge looked around, turned in a circle, scanning the distant horizon while his breath clouded the air around him. Jack half expected him to remove a glove and scan the energy of the area, but he didn't.

"This way," Bridge suddenly pointed to some distant spot behind Jack.

Without waiting for a response, Bridge began walking that way, brushing past Jack and the others as if they weren't even there, then leading the way like a Bloodhound on a scent trail.

Jack glanced at Syd and Z, then shrugged. They followed Bridge.

* * *

Mitchell hadn't lingered, apparently understanding that Sky would prefer to be alone with his father. He had given Sky his phone number so they could exchange stories over lunch or something, wished Sky Happy Holidays, and left without prompting.

When he left the cemetery, Sky didn't really know where he was going, but it didn't surprise him that he wound up sitting on an expanded metal bench in an empty park, watching a swing stir in the wind.

This wasn't just any park for Sky. It was a park to which his father had taken him a lot. It had been built after the quake Kevin Mitchell had spoken of. Looking back, Sky suspected his father had brought him here every time he remembered the people he couldn't save. Sky's father had loved more than anything to push his son on the swing, or to watch him go down the slide.

Sky knew, mostly from reading the files about the missions his father had undertaken, that sometimes you couldn't save everyone. No matter how well trained you were, how much experience you had, or how hard you fought, it just wasn't enough. Sky had never experienced that kind of failure, but he knew it was a real possibility. His father had died believing in what he was doing, but even that had not been enough to save his life. Sometimes people died no matter who they were or what they did.

Sky had inherited his father's love and devotion to being a Ranger, it was his whole life. Even knowing that the day would inevitably come when there was someone he couldn't save, still Sky wanted this life. Even knowing the devastation, the guilt, that would come from such a failure, Sky was willing to go into battle, willing to give his life for SPD, just as his father had.

He sometimes wondered how his father had been able to go on, to bear the burden of knowing that there had been people he couldn't save, battles he couldn't win. Because SPD didn't win all the time. Sky knew it, and so had his father. Yet, even in the face of that bitter reality, Sky's father had put on the uniform, sworn the oath, and lived his life as an SPD Ranger until he died.

The others didn't get it. Not really. Sky understood the feeling of invincibility that came from being a Power Ranger, the feeling that you couldn't really lose or, if you did, you could always come back and fight another day without any real consequences for losing the first battle.

It wasn't that the others had grown up easy. Like Sky, their childhoods had been torn from them by their powers, which guaranteed they would be considered freaks by their peers, ostracized and lonely. Some had it even worse than that. Best Sky could tell, Jack had been denied any kind of childhood, even before his powers manifested. Bridge, when his powers hit, had very nearly lost his mind when all the chaos of the world had come flooding in, it had nearly destroyed him.

But for all their sufferings, they hadn't been forced to face the stark reality that someday they would fail. Someday, someone would die because they couldn't protect them. Someday, they themselves might even be killed just doing their duty. Sky lived with that knowledge every day.

Even after his father's death -especially after- Sky had wanted to follow in his footsteps. The reality that failure and death awaited him sunk in a little deeper each year, but he had never felt suffocated by it. Some people had thought he was crazy to want to be a Ranger when being just that had killed his father. But, if Sky could choose the way he'd die, it would be as a Ranger. He never said that though, because it disturbed people when someone young had thought so much about how he might die.

After his father died, Sky didn't play like other kids played. He didn't play for the sake of playing, but just to pass the time until the day he was old enough to start training to become a Ranger like his dad had been. Other kids noticed his distance even before any adults did, and they stopped wanting to hang out with him long before his powers ever manifested. Maybe Bridge had lost his social skills, the price he paid for his unique power, but Sky had never had any to begin with.

He'd built a wall around his heart to keep people out long before he'd been able to physically call one into existence. Maybe the type of power they had was determined by the sort of people they were. Or maybe they were the sort of people they were as an indirect result of the nature of their powers.

Did they define their powers or were they defined by them? It was a question to make a philosopher squirm. But, for Sky, there was a more troubling aspect. If he changed who he was, if he let down his guard, broke down the wall he'd built around his heart, would he lose his powers? Would they be gone? Or would they merely change? If so, to what? Or what if he couldn't change, couldn't take down the wall, because his powers had control over what and who he was? What then? Sky didn't know, but it occasionally kept him awake at night.

Now, looking at the deserted park, Sky couldn't help but wonder if it was all in vain. If, in the end, there wasn't any point to any of it. When all was said and done, what if they failed? What if Emperor Grumm -or whatever evil might follow him- defeated the Rangers, destroyed SPD and Earth? Grumm had succeeded before, destroying Anubis Cruger's home, taking everything and everyone he loved. Rangers could fail. But, was it possible that they always failed, sooner or later?

Sky almost never asked that question. Only at this time of year, when he felt most acutely the loss of his father, when he became most aware of the suffering he and others had endured, when the Christmas lights everywhere reminded him of all that had been lost, did he ever ask himself if maybe there wasn't a reason for any of it, if maybe it was all just a waste. Maybe the world really was doomed.

There was a lot of beauty in Christmas, little instances of kindness from strangers, displays of affection that would otherwise have been kept safely hidden away. But there was also what Jack had pointed out. Selfishness, greed, pride, vanity, all the major sins came to light in Christmas.

People who wanted everything given to them, people who insisted on the perfect decorations, meal, gift wrap, everything timed down to the second so that nobody got a chance to really _feel_ anything because that wasn't on the schedule, people who would quite literally kill over the last copy of the most recently released video game or that year's Holiday Barbie doll. Violence and chaos of a kind you saw at no other time of the year. And then, right after Christmas, the sales, the returning of unappreciated gifts, the fighting over every clearance item. Everything Jack had said and more was real, as real and undeniable as death itself.

But what, if anything, did any of it mean? All the lousy Christmas music, all the frantic last minute shoppers, all the cars and trucks hitting the road to travel cross-country to see distant family members only to drive away the next day and go back to their tedious lives... was there a point to any of it? Or was it all just a bunch of random events and actions, without purpose or meaning in the end?

Sky was less offended than startled to find his thoughts broken into by the sight of the Rangers marching into the park. He stood from the bench as they approached, wondering why they hadn't just called him using his communicator, wondering what emergency had brought them out here.

"Sky, are you alright?" Jack asked, deepening Sky's confusion still further.

"Yeah, I'm fine. What's up?" Sky wanted to know, "And why is Bridge's nose bleeding?"

Bridge, appearing startled by the second question, put a hand under his nose. The glove came away bloody, but he stared without evident comprehension or unease.

"It's not my blood," Bridge said finally, sounding dazed.

"What do you mean it's not yours?" Sky demanded, "It came out of your nose, didn't it?"

"Yes," Bridge nodded faintly, "But it's not mine."

"Then whose is it?" Jack wanted to know, turning his focus from Sky to Bridge.

"Whose, Bridge?" Sky pressed when Bridge didn't answer immediately.

Slowly, Bridge's eyes cleared and he looked Sky in the face, his expression overwhelmingly one of deep concern and maybe even a dull, knowing dread. When he answered, Sky felt like he'd known what it would be before Bridge spoke, even though what he said made no earthly sense.

"It's yours."


	6. Underneath Stormy Skies

"It is not," Kat declared after careful analysis, "Sky's blood."

Unwillingly, but without saying so, Sky had returned to the base with the others. He and Jack had each taken one of Bridge's arms when he started to weave and nearly ran into a tree before they could stop him. At the base, Bridge had inarticulately insisted that Kat examine Sky, though she had truly only been interested in Bridge, from whose nose considerable quantities of blood had poured.

"Then who's blood is it?" Syd asked, more for Bridge's benefit than her own, as she already felt certain of whose blood it was, just like they all had been.

"Bridge's," Kat said in a matter-of-fact tone that prevented Bridge from arguing.

She sighed and set down her clipboard.

"Fortunately," Kat went on, "It doesn't appear to be anything serious, just a result of the cold, dry air."

"Nothing serious?" Jack practically snapped, "He hallucinated that Sky was in danger, convinced us all to go and find him, nearly cracked his head open on both a wall and later a tree, hasn't been fully coherent since and _you_ say it's not serious. Unbelievable."

"Can I go now?" Sky asked, having patiently endured a thorough examination from Kat, which had revealed absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

"Yes," Kat said, flashing Bridge a warning look when he opened his mouth to protest.

"Thank you," Sky slid off the examination table and, without a backward glance, left the room.

"I'm not wrong," Bridge said, turning to Jack for help.

"Bridge-" Jack was shaking his head.

"I'm not!" Bridge insisted, looking from one face to another for support, "I'm not wrong! Not about this! You've got to believe me, I'm _not_ wrong about this."

"Bridge," Kat said, "I think you should lie down for awhile.

"I don't need to lie down!" Bridge protested fiercely, unusual for him.

Jack had never heard Bridge argue. Not with anyone, for any reason. Bridge, odd though he might be, was the kindest, most laid-back, universally agreeable person Jack had ever met. He took insults with no more resentment than compliments, never had a harsh word or dirty look for anyone, accepted the fact that nobody understood him with a grace that seemed almost inhuman at times.

"Cadet Carson," Kat snapped in a rebuking, but highly formal tone, drawing to her full height and squaring her shoulders, "You will lie down and rest here, or I will sedate you. It's your choice, but you're not leaving this room until I say so. Do you understand?"

Bridge's eyes fell, but he said nothing.

"I asked you a question, Cadet," Kat pressed, "Do I need to repeat it?"

"No, Miss Manx," Bridge replied in a low, defeated tone, "I understand."

"Good."

After making sure Bridge was going to lie down as he'd been instructed to, she ushered the others from the room. She came out into the hallway and closed the door, evidently not wanting Bridge to overhear her.

"Is he really okay?" Syd asked worriedly.

"Physically, he's fine," Kat answered, but then she went on, "But I'm afraid that, mentally, he may be suffering a relapse. When he first came to us, Bridge was... disoriented, distracted, disconnected in almost every way from reality. He not only bumped into things he couldn't see, he walked around things that weren't there, talked about things that hadn't happened, forgot things that had."

"That sounds a lot like what we saw today," Jack agreed with a short nod, "What can we do about it?"

"Well, I'm hoping it's just stress, that some rest might bring him around," Kat said, "But if he gets too deep into these delusions of his, he could seriously hurt himself. Or maybe someone else."

"You think he's dangerous?" Syd asked in some disbelief.

"You put his power, the training of an SPD Ranger and the fact that he's losing contact with reality all together and yes, I do," Kat said.

"Bridge wouldn't hurt anyone," Jack asserted, though he felt his confidence waver, then shatter with Kat's next words.

"If he thought they were a criminal, saw a human as an alien perhaps, or an innocent bystander as an assailant, he would. You know as well as anyone what he's capable of. Bridge may not seem all there mentally, but he's a capable fighter. He could seriously injure someone, maybe even kill them."

"Well," Jack said, feeling helpless, "It won't come to that. You sedate him, or whatever you have to. He'll be alright," but, inside, he didn't feel so sure.

* * *

Sky knew he had no right to feel angry, nor any reason. Bridge and the others had come looking for him out of concern for his welfare, and it should have touched him that they should be so worried. But all he could feel was that they had interrupted the time he had set aside to spend with his father, dead in body but still present in spirit, that they had invaded his privacy, following him to places that he had never shared with them, to the park that had heretofore been untouched by the present.

He realized, or some part of him did, that part of his anger was actually fear, but it wasn't fear for Bridge as it ought to have been, but for himself. He was terrified of being weak, of being seen in that fragile state by those he fought alongside. He was scared to death that, if they saw that weakness in him, their faith in his abilities would be diminished, that the knowledge of how very fractured his soul was would cause them to doubt not only his powers but also his motivations.

He was angry, and he was scared, and being scared just made him more angry.

Realizing it was past noon and he hadn't yet eaten lunch, Sky suddenly remembered Kevin Mitchell's number, hastily written down on a piece of paper in his pocket. As he couldn't stand being in the SPD base any longer than necessary on this day, Sky decided he might as well do something. If Mitchell was busy, then Sky would go alone. That would be okay too, he decided.

When he called Mitchell, he discovered that the man was available and also hadn't eaten lunch yet.

In a less unsettled frame of mind than he was currently in, Sky might have thought it suspicious. Almost certainly he would have, for it was in his nature to see threats where none existed, to perceive slights which were not intended, and to pass judgment about the motivations of people without evidence to support it. But the incident with Bridge and the other Rangers, and the fact that he was now returned to the seemingly haunted SPD base served to not only cloud his instincts, but suppress his paranoia to a degree he'd never before allowed. He just wanted an excuse to leave this place right now.

Kevin Mitchell gave him that excuse in spades.

Since he had obtained permission to leave not just for an hour but the entire day, Sky didn't linger or tell anyone where he was going. After all, they were neither his parents nor his keepers. As far as regulations went, Sky had permission to leave, and no restrictions about telling where he went so long as he kept his Morpher on him and conducted himself in a manner befitting an SPD Ranger at all times.

Come what may, he was a Ranger. First, last, always. Sometimes that got buried beneath everything else, sometimes it got lost or momentarily misplaced, but Sky never forgot the promise he'd made to his father, to himself, and to the very Earth itself. He was a defender, had trained his whole life for that singular purpose, devoted himself to but one ambition, one goal. Everything he did, it was all for this.

All for the SPD Rangers, defenders of Earth.

What he always came to, sooner or later was that fact, that inescapable element of reality. Whether there was a purpose, a reason, a meaning, an order to life wasn't a question he could answer until the end. But, until then, he would cling to the life preserver that, succeed or fail, he would fight, fight to that end, the end of all ends if necessary, in the name of the Rangers. It would either be enough or it wouldn't. Either way, it was the only gift he could offer to that Great Unknown.

Since he had thirty minutes but didn't want to hang around the base, Sky decided to walk to his destination. Breathing the cold air, walking familiar streets, sharing memories with the echo of his father, all of that helped clear his head. Taking this particular day off sometimes seemed like the only thing that allowed him to function the rest of the year, rather like Bridge's gloves provided him with the stability to face each day instead of hiding from it and everything it entailed.

The air had grown colder since last time Sky was out, but not so cold as it had been early this morning when he went jogging with Jack. Looking up, he saw that the clouds were gathering, clotting together, piling up on one another. It brought a brief smile to his face.

 _Looks like Syd's going to get her snow after all._

He knew why Syd wanted snow so badly, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Christmas couldn't arrive without snow. It was because her memories of Christmas were all full of bright white, wrapped up in the soft fluff of snow, the key to places in her heart she wanted opened, because those memories were for her the most precious, the most dear, and she felt like she wouldn't be able to really relive them in her mind if there was no snow. It looked like she wasn't going to have to worry about that.

Sky himself had no memories trapped in the winter white. There had been snow for him, but it had never really mattered. It wasn't the difference between winter and Christmas for him as it was for Syd.

His memories weren't contained within snow or pumpkin pie or brightly wrapped gifts or trees or lights or anything that was a signature of the holiday for most people. If he could have locked his memories, good or bad, behind doors and had something specific which could trigger them, he would have. But he couldn't. His memories, both the good and the bad, came at him from nowhere, often without any triggering element. They could really hit him hard.

But what blindsided him now, though painful, was no memory. He didn't have time to absorb what it was, never saw it coming, didn't even know to feel threatened until it hit him.

He staggered, black spots exploding in his vision, but he wasn't given time enough to recover, not even time enough to activate the shield that had saved his life countless times. His assailant swung again the heavy object, and it again hit him in the side of the head. This time, he went down.

* * *

Bridge, alone in the hospital wing of the base, shot upright in bed and screamed. No one could hear him, nobody was there to prevent him from putting both hands over his ears or to ask him what he was screaming about. Nobody was there, but Bridge heard them speak anyway.

"Now, Blue Ranger, you will know what suffering is. You will pay for what you've done. And then... then you will die. Before Christmas is over, you _will_ die."


	7. That Road Before Us

Sky regained his consciousness, and then immediately wanted to return it, mostly because of the pulsing, pounding, throbbing, screaming pain in his head. He'd never felt anything that hurt like this. Nothing physical anyway. It was so intense that he had difficulty remembering his own name.

But he did remember that he was a Ranger.

Realizing he was seated on a metal chair, he attempted to remove himself from it, only to find that he was bound to the arms of the chair by straps just above the wrist, as well as to the legs of the chair by similar straps just above the ankles. He fought with the restraints for a moment, but realized they were strong and struggling only made them cut into him. They were already too tight, had already been biting into his skin. Struggling only made it worse, and accomplished nothing.

Sky didn't panic then.

Something was stuck in the skin of his right forearm, something dug in deep, taped and held there. Sky knew what an IV was and, though he'd never had one stuck in him, he had always imagined that this was exactly what it would feel like. Something was being pushed unwillingly into his veins, something that burned and ached, both at the same time. He registered that, but it didn't make sense to him.

That didn't make him panic either.

He couldn't remember what had happened to him, didn't know where he was or who had done this, but he didn't panic. That wouldn't be a sensible use of his time. And Sky was nothing if not logical, sensible, rational, as a Ranger must be under times of stress.

He couldn't see, it was dark where he was. But he could hear. He could hear a _plink-plink-plink_ noise, steady as a heart beat. After a moment, he identified it as water dripping. The fact that his bare feet were touching damp concrete helped. Mentally examining the sound, he decided it must be some kind of metal pipe, leaking water onto the concrete floor. That's what it sounded like. Either that or it was a faucet not quite turned off, but that didn't explain why the water was hitting concrete instead of something like steel or porcelain, the sort of things sinks were made out of.

From the resounding of the dripping water, Sky determined that the space he was in was big, mostly empty, indoors somewhere, without windows. He realized that he'd been wrong. He actually could see, just a little. After twisting his head around, he found a faint source of light, seemingly floating up in the air, and he realized after awhile that it must be coming under a door, that there must be stairs there. Sky found he was able to make out dim, unfamiliar shapes through the dark.

A basement maybe. It would have to be a very large basement. And the plumbing seemed odd too. You didn't have dripping pipes in basements. Not anymore. An old house? Did there used to be water pipes in basements? Sky couldn't remember. His memory felt fuzzy, but the feeling in his head was only too sharp. Pain, lots of it, demanding most of his attention like someone pounding on a door.

The door, the real door, the one at the head of the unseen stairs, banged open like a gunshot. A hulking figure stood in the rectangle of light the open door allowed in, then strode down the stairs. Boots, heavy boots, thumping on concrete steps. Ominous.

Sky didn't panic then either.

A light across the room clicked on, a naked bulb suspended from the ceiling, turned on by a pull chain.

The figure had turned away from Sky in pulling the chain, continued to face away as they attended to something or the other that was hidden from Sky's view by their body. Suddenly, as if sensing someone watching, the figure turned towards Sky, and he saw not just suspicion, but a poisonous hate as well.

His brow furrowed as he struggled to take in the countenance, to make the blurry features resolve into something solid. He hadn't realized that his vision was skewed, but it was. He could barely see.

His mind was as dull as his vision, thoughts piling up on one another like snow in an avalanche, each trying to demand his attention. Memories flitted across his mind like ghosts, there and gone in an instant. Thoughts, perceptions bounced around like little balls of insight, flashing in and out of the dark. He couldn't quite grasp anything, but finally one thing did come to him, one single thought coherent enough to speak aloud.

"Do I... know you?" his voice was thick, words came with effort.

Like some dark angel, the figure flew towards him.

"No, no, no! I'm not ready for you! Not yet!"

As the heavy, skull shattering object came towards him, Sky realized that, though he now tried, he could not activate his shield. He had no power. This time, he had seen the crowbar coming down to steal his consciousness, yet he still could not defend himself.

This time, Sky panicked. He might even have cried out in alarm or protest.

With savage force, the crowbar struck his head, and darkness, total, absolute darkness, descended.

* * *

It seemed like Jack had only just settled back down with his book, finally putting his finger on the paragraph where he had twice before been interrupted, when Bridge repeated the morning's performance sans the introduction of his forehead to the wall near the doorway.

Instead, Bridge staggered in and made for the counter.

"Bridge, aren't you supposed to be resting?" Jack inquired, "Bridge?"

"Huh?" Bridge blinked widely at him and, to Jack's horror, did not appear to recognize him at first, relief came in a flood when Bridge said, "Oh. Hi, Jack. I need to think."

Using the counter as his guide, Bridge made it partway across the room to his thinking spot, then stared uncertainly at the gap between him and it, like it was a yawning canyon too wide to jump. He hesitated for too long, then sort of lunged across it and fell on the cushions he normally occupied when he stood on his head. Sweating, shaking with that effort, Bridge couldn't find the strength get up again and lay there, floundering like a fish on land.

"Bridge!" Jack's fear renewed at the pitiful sight and he sprang to his feet, yet again abandoning the book.

He went straight to Bridge's side and helped him sit up. Bridge, eyes closed, wrapped his arms around himself and moaned before trying to lie curled on his side. Jack, for reasons he couldn't fathom, was unable to let Bridge go, instead holding onto him, as if letting him go would mean never getting him back. Spiders of dread went marching up and down Jack's spine.

"Bridge, you okay man?" it was the most idiotic question of Jack's life.

But, like all questions, Bridge took it as a serious one, and didn't seem aware of how utterly moronic it was. It was the perfect opportunity for a sarcastic remark, but Bridge didn't make one.

"Feels like knives," he gasped, leaning heavily against Jack's arm, trying to slide back onto the floor, "Like I'm full of knives," he managed to open his eyes, so tortured with pain that Jack could almost feel it himself when Bridge looked at him, "It really hurts, Jack."

"Yeah, I see it does," Jack said gently, still refusing to let Bridge fall, "Kat says you're not sick, not hurt," another idiot thing to say, but Bridge didn't seem to notice it this time either.

"Not _me_ ," Bridge spat the words before moaning with pain, his body contracting in on itself, as if he could curl into a small enough ball to prevent the agony from reaching him, "It's not me, Jack."

 _Oh man, this again?_

"Bridge, Sky's okay," Jack said, not realizing his voice was shaking, inside he was trembling with doubt, "Sky's fine. Remember? We went and found him, and he was fine."

"Not now," Bridge said, beginning to shake violently, his eyes bright with pain, arms squeezing tighter around his midsection, "Oh God!" it didn't sound like a curse, maybe a prayer instead, "We have to find him! We have to find Sky, Jack! He's going to die if we don't!"

"Okay, take it easy, just calm down," Jack said soothingly, then looked around frantically for someone to yell at, to tell to go find Kat and bring her in here, but the room was empty.

"You don't believe me," Bridge accused quietly, pausing to stifle another cry of pain, "I don't blame you. But I wasn't wrong. I'm not wrong. Sky's going to die if we... if we don't find him."

Jack felt a calm descend upon him, as he realized that what he was trying to escape from wasn't his friend's anguish, but admitting to something that he couldn't understand or control.

"I believe you," he whispered, "God help me, I don't know why... but I believe you. We'll go find Sky, okay? We're going to find him now. You hear me, Bridge? Bridge?"

The moment Jack had started to speak, the tension seemed to go out of Bridge. Suddenly he was dead weight in Jack's arms. His eyes closed and his breathing, though no less easy, seemed less pained.

"Bridge!" Jack shook him, and Bridge opened his eyes wearily.

"I hear you," Bridge said in a quiet, almost serene voice, "Just... just gimme a second."

Jack supposed he could chalk it up to Bridge's delusions, that he'd been imagining the pain. But he'd told Bridge the truth. And the truth was that Jack felt, whatever forces Bridge was in contact with used him as a kind of conduit. It -they, whatever- hadn't been attacking Bridge, but trying to force Jack to pay attention, to face a reality he didn't want to, by making it so bad for Bridge that Jack simply could not continue to ignore it.

Bridge had known something was wrong from the start of the day, maybe even before. That it got this bad was only because no one was willing to listen him.

"I'm sorry," Jack said quietly, not sure if he was speaking to Bridge or whatever lay on the other side of his friend's sight, "I'm so sorry."

Bridge didn't stir at the words, like he didn't even hear them.

Jack was left to wonder, would whatever had done this to Bridge in order to gain Jack's attention have killed him? Why now? What reason was there to hurt Bridge now and not before now? Worse, what risks had Jack unknowingly taken with his friend's life when ignoring him in the past?

The heater was on, but suddenly the room felt very, very cold.


	8. Misfortune Seemed His Lot

Sky's assailant-turned-captor was standing over him when he reawakened. Looming above him, the figure scowled darkly, his face eerily lit by a second light bulb that hung directly over Sky's chair.

"Who... who are you?" Sky asked quietly.

A fist shot out and caught him in the face so unexpectedly that his teeth cracked together, sending spikes of pain up and down his jaw. The chair was hefted onto two legs with the impact and wobbled uncertainly for a second before crashing back onto all fours.

Blood gushed into his mouth from some cut on the inside and Sky almost choked on it before spitting it out on the floor, flashing a defiant glare at his enemy, who merely used the opportunity to strike him again.

"You can't just kidnap SPD Rangers," Sky warned after spitting another mouthful of blood, "There will be people looking for me."

"They won't find you," growled the stranger, the voice deep and without inflection yet the malice behind the words was unmistakable.

The hand raised to strike him again, but was suddenly interrupted by what sounded like a doorbell playing the first few bars of Jingle Bells. The figure grunted, hit Sky into mental oblivion and then shambled up the stairs to answer the door.

As Sky's awareness faded out, he was sure he heard the sound of carolers singing Jingle Bells, perhaps in response to the sound of the custom doorbell.

* * *

Jack was not a man whose convictions were rooted in faith of any kind, not even the superficially anti-religious faith in the strength of humanity, the power of love or even justice. He had seen too much of the filth, too much of the worst the world had to offer, to have any sort of conviction about peace, love and harmony, brought by man or God either one.

So it was not surprising that, when Bridge led him and the others up a cobblestone walk to a covered porch where a two-foot tall plastic Santa leered and knocked on the painted blue front door which was then answered by a little old lady about eighty years old with wavy white hair and an eye searing floral patterned dress, Jack's faith in Bridge's powers of perception faltered.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I thought you were carolers. Well, come in, come in. You'll catch your death of cold out there on the porch. Don't mind Santa, he's always scaring people, but I love him so."

Jack hadn't expected this. Of all the things in the world he might have expected, this was not one of them. With an uneasy glance at the lascivious Santa, he stepped across the threshold of the house into which he'd been invited, his team following behind mutely.

"Would you like some tea, dears?" the little old lady asked brightly, shuffling off through the garishly decorated foyer and towards what Jack could only guess was the living room.

The foyer was saturated with color, flowers of all kinds and colors adorned it. Brown wall paper festooned with pink roses covered the walls, photographs and painting of everything from yellow tulips to bluebonnets covered that. The white tile floor had violets patterned across it, the round oak end tables on either side of the front door had flower doilies of white and yellow, upon which sat vases with flowers both plastic and real of such stunning variety Jack didn't even care to guess what they might be.

The living room wasn't any better, carpeted with an oriental rug featuring more flowers (in gold), floral print sofa and living chairs draped with flowery afghans. More paintings and pictures, more vases on the coffee table, on end tables and over the fire place on the mantel, and more doilies. So many doilies.

Just as Jack started to go a little cross-eyed looking at the stripy (and flower drenched) curtains, Bridge abruptly slipped past their surprised hostess, back out into the foyer and (from the sound of it) upstairs.

"Bridge! Get back here!" Jack started to go after him, but the dainty little lady caught him by the arm and smiled benignly.

"Let him explore, dear," she said, "There's nothing in this house that's more valuable in one piece than it is in several, so he can't do any harm. Now, come and sit and I'll have Penny fetch you some tea. Would you also like scones with it? She makes such wonderful scones," without even pausing for breath, the elderly woman turned towards another doorway, "Penny! Penny, dear, we've got guests. Come and meet them, and bring some tea and scones from the kitchen."

From some distant room, a melodious voice responded.

"In a minute, Granny. I'm just putting the last of the ornaments on the tree in the Study."

It occurred to Jack that, despite the profusion of translucent glass vases, flowers, colorful doilies and embroidered flower throw pillows, he hadn't noticed any Christmas decorations. Now he looked again, and at once spotted the Cedar Christmas tree in the corner.

It was hard to miss, swathed in a garland of white fabric and plastic daisies, practically buried in colorful traditional ornaments and several flower ones as well, a small pile of unopened, floral patterned paper wrapped gifts atop a white skirt with forest green fringe and red roses.

"Come, sit," the elderly lady said, gesturing to the couch, which was fairly crawling with tansy, geranium and hyacinth throw pillows.

Jack looked at Syd and Z helplessly, but neither of them offered him any hope of escaping from this bizarre universe he'd suddenly stumbled on, where perfect strangers are invited in for no reason, allowed to roam freely, and offered tea with scones.

Obediently, if reluctantly, Jack sat on the couch, wary of the bright chrysanthemum patterning. Syd and Z took the cue and also sat. They crowded together on the couch, as though they were afraid that if they separated the flowers would swallow them whole and they would never see each other again.

"Now, I'll go put some music on. Won't take me a minute."

"Wait, Ma'am, that's really not necessary-" Jack found he was talking only to air, for the spritely lady had practically floated out of the room, humming tunelessly but surely listening to some favorite Christmas song in her mind.

"Have you ever seen so many flowers in your life?" Z asked, once they were safely alone.

"No," Jack replied sullenly, "And I never wanted to, either."

He was feeling worse and worse about letting Bridge drag him into this escapade, whatever it was. If Sky was in trouble, they needed to be finding him, not sitting on a hideous couch waiting to be served tea and biscuits. However, Jack was beginning to seriously doubt that Sky was really in trouble.

Bridge, on the other hand...

"Here we are," Jack twitched towards the voice... and stopped thinking... about anything.

Just entering the room was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She was petite, with gently waving, waist-length, honey-blond hair which perfectly framed her angelic face. Her captivating sapphire eyes sparkled with mischief and mystery. Jack's breath caught at the mere sight of her.

He had never been raised with any fancy manners and had never before understood why a man must stand when a woman entered the room. Now, at last, he did. He stood, speechless, staring but unable to look away or close his mouth, which had fallen open.

She favored him with a dazzling smile, showing teeth perfect and white enough for a toothpaste commercial and continued into the room carrying her tray as though Jack's stunned bunny look was completely ordinary. She moved so gracefully the cream in the creamer on the tray she carried didn't slosh, didn't even ripple as she seemed to dance across the room.

Only after she set the tray down did Jack manage to let his knees turn to melted butter and sit back down on the offensive couch. He still didn't have any control of his jaw, which hung open like he was a fish with a hook in its mouth, except what he felt was neither painful nor even unpleasant.

"Hello," She said, her smile not faltering even as Jack did.

"Jack. My name is Jack. Jack is my name. I'm Jack," he twitched awkwardly, "This is Syd and Z."

"Okay, Jack," she laughed, and her voice was like silver bells when she did, "What do you take in your tea? Cream? Sugar? Lemon?"

"I... uh..." Jack, lost for words, couldn't even stammer out that he hardly ever drank tea.

"I like cream and sugar," Syd said, after it was evident that Jack would only be gaining control over his tongue and open mouth sometime after Christmas.

"Black," Z said, when Penny turned to her, "No sugar."

"I like tea," Jack managed to choke out.

Penny laughed again, but it wasn't a mean laugh. She seemed genuinely amused, like she thought he was funny instead of awkward. Her laugh made the array of flowers suddenly seem pale and dreary, where before they had been too bright, too vibrant. She was so radiant, so _alive_ , that everything else just didn't seem to have any color or substance to it at all.

"Do you also like scones?" Penny asked, flicking her head to toss her hair over her shoulder, "We have blueberry and cranberry. I was going to make raisin, but haven't had the time."

She was beautiful, but the most beautiful when she said 'cranberry'. Jack decided that's what he wanted. If it tasted half as good as it sounded when she said it, he'd want cranberry scones every day for the rest of his life. He was smitten, knew it, and didn't care who else did.

"Granny," Penny looked away from him as her Grandmother entered the room with a CD case in hand, "You can't keep just bringing strangers into the house. These are SPD officers, wherever did you find them?"

Her words suggested irritation, but nothing else did. She actually laughed as she said it, evidently as delighted by the eccentricity of her grandmother as by Jack's stammering.

"Oh I didn't find them, dear," her grandmother said, "they were just standing around on the porch with Pervy Santa."

Penny laughed again, neatly pouring the tea into cups and passing them out, then placing scones on saucers for everyone before serving herself and her grandmother and sitting down.

Jack knew he should ask if they knew Sky Tate or Blue Ranger, knew he should be going to see what trouble Bridge was getting himself into, knew he should take a bite of scone or sip his tea or something, _anything_. But all he could do was just sit there, mind emptied of every thought it ever had.

He was saved by the bell. Or rather by Bridge, who came in clutching a picture frame in both hands. He scurried over to Jack, who looked up in puzzlement when Bridge turned the picture towards him.

A pretty blond girl in a red dress sat smiling into the camera. For half a second, he thought this must be a picture of Penny when she three or four years younger, but then he saw that it couldn't be. Pretty as the girl was, she wasn't as ravishing as Penny, not even if she'd dyed her hair honey-blond.

"Who is she?" Jack asked of Bridge, looking up from the photo.

"I don't know," Bridge replied, handing the picture to Jack as if it were a priceless gem.

"Then why are you showing me this?" Jack wanted to know.

"Because," Bridge said earnestly, eyes wide, "she's dead."


	9. Gathered Snowflakes

When Jack passed the framed picture to Penny and asked her who it was, she didn't answer at first. She ran her hand across the glass protecting the photo and her eyes were filled with a sort of bittersweet sadness tinged with love. Jack couldn't stand the silence and pressed for an identity.

"Was she your sister? Cousin maybe?"

Bridge was still standing in front of Jack. He waved and gestured for Bridge to get behind the couch. If Bridge was going to stand around, he might as well not do it in the middle of Jack and Penny's conversation. Obediently, Bridge went away, but he didn't take up a position behind the couch, instead meandering over to take an uninvited look at the daisy-dressed Christmas tree.

"Oh no," Penny replied, suddenly breaking into a smile that, while it reached her lovely eyes, it was unable to erase the sorrow there, "Her name was Amber. Amber Maitlin. She was my mother."

"Your mother?" Jack queried, thinking maybe this was a very old photo.

Seeing his attempts to puzzle it out on his face, Penny smiled. Somehow, she was even prettier when she was thinking about something that was obviously sad, because she could still smile and laugh despite it. Touched by grief, she nevertheless clung to a bright joy Jack couldn't understand.

"After she had me, her boyfriend ran out on her," Penny said, supplying information Jack hadn't asked for and wasn't sure why he was getting, "She had always been headstrong. That's where Pervy Santa came from. She and Granny had this big fight."

Jack glanced at the elder member of the household. Mrs. Maitlin's eyes were distant and tearful, the CD case unopened in her lap. She too had this expression of happiness in the midst of sorrow. Jack couldn't get it. He'd never seen people happy and sad at the same time.

"I told her if she was so high on Christmas, she ought to do some of the work preparing," the old woman said, then smiled, "She brought home that hideous Santa and we fought. Oh, we fought over that thing, and she ran out, went to live with her boyfriend at the time. Seven months later, she called me in tears, saying he'd left her, her and the baby. I'd had no idea there was a baby."

"The baby was me," Penny took up the story, "Mom and Granny patched things up, had a laugh about how silly it was that they had such a huge fight about a cheap plastic Santa. They decided we -Mom and I- should move back in. So Mom loaded me and everything she owned into her boyfriend's car."

"He left it behind in his rush to escape," the grandmother put in.

"Left the past behind," Penny paused, frowning, "but never made it to the future."

Now they'd reached the painful moment, neither of them seemed prepared to actually speak aloud of the terrible tragedy Jack now felt certain was the key point of this story. Amber Maitlin hadn't just died. She was young, presumably healthy, capable of driving a car. But something told Jack that she'd never made it back to this house, her home. Something had stopped her.

Bridge, not turning his attention from the tree which seemed to have him completely fascinated, broke the silence, "She was killed. Car wreck, right?"

"How did you-" Penny's eyes were full of suspicion and wonder as she looked past Jack and the others to Bridge, adding, "Yes. There was an alien attack. One of the explosions tore up the road ahead. There was a crash, a huge pile up of cars, I'm told. My mother was killed instantly."

Bridge turned to look Penny full in the face before answering her unfinished question.

"She may have died," Bridge explained in a soft voice, "But she hasn't gone anywhere. Not really."

"Bridge..." Jack said, casting a wary eye at Penny, "...has this... ability. To sense energy."

"Her presence does linger here," Mrs. Maitlin nodded to herself, "I always knew she was still here. That's why all the flowers. Amber loved flowers, tended a big, beautiful garden in the backyard from the time she was just eleven years old. Can you imagine? Eleven and growing the finest flowers this side of Heaven."

"Granny and I," Penny said, her awestruck gaze still on Bridge, who hadn't moved, "We can't even grow weeds. So... the flower decorations. It makes it feel like Mom's still here. I miss her, you know. I can't even remember the sound of her voice, but I still miss her. You're saying she's not gone, that she's... a ghost or something?"

"If only it were that simple," Bridge replied quietly.

"You followed her up the stairs," Penny's grandmother realized, "She led you right to her picture. More than that... she's what led you to this house in the first place. Why?"

Bridge said nothing, so Jack jumped in for him, feeling like he was about to die from the awkwardness of all of this. He was less enthralled by Bridge's ability to follow traces left by the dearly departed than he was appalled by the fact that, in so doing, Bridge had only brought the Rangers into this place of eternal grieving, forcing this embarrassing tea party and unwonted intrusion into the private affairs of perfect strangers.

"We're looking for a friend of ours," Jack said, "Do you happen to know anyone by the name of Sky?"

Penny's face when she was thinking scrunched in the cutest way imaginable, and Jack couldn't stand it. She was wonderful, like something from a dream, but the circumstances that had brought them together all but guaranteed that he would never speak to her again. If he could ever find a polite way to extricate himself from this house with its cloying flower arrangements, that is.

"Hmm... no, I'm afraid I don't. This friend of yours is also a officer?"

"A Ranger, yes," Jack answered slowly, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing really. It's just..." Penny laughed, "It's silly really, but I was just thinking... the last time I was this close to an SPD officer, it was the Ranger who pulled me from the car as it was burning. It's weird. I don't remember anything, anything of that day. I was only a baby. I really don't have any clear memories until I was about four years old, by then I was living with my grandmother. She's my guardian. But I remember this black smoke, and someone coming through it to get me. Someone in red. An SPD Ranger. I remember the helmet and everything. He told me I was going to be okay, that he wouldn't leave me until I was safe. And he didn't. I remember that he held onto me for what must have been... oh, hours while fires were being put out, the alien that attacked was being arrested... he didn't put me down or hand me off to someone else. Not once. He just held me."

"Sky's dad?" Z guessed, glancing at Jack.

"I'm thinking so. But what does that have to do with now?" Jack asked, himself looking to Bridge.

Bridge didn't answer, he seemed lost in thought.

"We need to find out more about that alien," Syd said, "Maybe he's gotten out. If he's looking for revenge for that day, he may be going after Sky. Taking out his anger toward the father on the son."

Jack snapped into action.

"Thank you, very much," he said to Penny and her grandmother, rapidly getting to his feet, "For the tea, the scones, and the information. But we really, really need to go find our friend now."

"We'll show ourselves out," Bridge volunteered before either hostess could rise.

"It was very nice to meet you," Jack added hurriedly as he backed out of the room, the others in tow.

Once they were outside, Jack turned to Bridge.

"While that was all very enlightening, what was the big idea, bringing us here? Earlier, when you said Sky was in trouble, you led us straight to him. What gives?"

"I'm sorry," Bridge said meekly, "I don't know, I think maybe it's all the snow, its aura has got everything tangled up and confused in my head. Nothing's as clear as it should be."

"Bridge, buddy," Jack said worriedly, putting a hand on Bridge's shoulder, "There isn't any snow."

"Yes there is," Bridge told him, casting his gaze skyward, "It's getting ready to fall. I can feel it."

"Great," Syd sighed irritably, "Now he predicts the weather."

"Come on, we should keep looking for Sky," Jack said, dropping his hand from Bridge's shoulder, "We can call Kat and have her look into our alien attacker. Bridge, where do we go?"

Bridge lowered his gaze from the deepening clouds overhead, looking first left then right, up and down the sidewalk in front of Penny and her grandmother's house. He pushed his hands into his pockets and started walking, heading southeast along the sidewalk. The others followed at a distance.

"Jack, are you sure about this?" Z whispered quietly, not wanting Bridge to overhear, "He was wrong earlier, about Sky being in trouble. What if he's still wrong now?"

"I tried calling Sky on the communicator before I came to get you and Syd," Jack replied, his voice equally low, "He didn't answer. When has Sky ever not answered a call from SPD headquarters?"

"Never," Syd answered, "But, even if he is in trouble, I'm not sure how going on this trip down memory lane is going to get us any closer to finding him."

Jack sighed, "Just call Kat. Let me worry about Bridge."

* * *

Sky flashed awake when the ice-cold water hit him, gasping and under the impression he was drowning. Not remembering where he was at first, he tried to thrash his way clear of the assaulting bucket of water, but the straps at his wrists, ankles and another set on his upper arms that he hadn't noticed earlier held, even though he struggled hard enough to draw blood from all six points of contact.

Someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. The light clicked on again, but the water in his eyes prevented Sky from seeing. When he tried to open his eyes, the water ran in and stung. He tried again to activate the power which seemed to have deserted him.

"Don't bother," the voice, cold as the water before it, caused him to cease struggling as memory flowed back into him, "See this?"

Sky's head was pulled sideways, his face turned down. Now the water on his face ran away from his eyes and he found himself gazing blearily at a needle taped to his arm, attached to a clear rubber-looking tube that led up to a plastic bag hanging from a hook, the bag had some sort of brownish liquid in it, almost the color of weak tea.

"It's something I concocted myself. That's being pumped into your system at about seven drops a minute. Such a small amount of it just suppresses your unnatural abilities. Taken at a continuous dose, you'll be dead inside of a week. The same stuff that takes out your ability is also slow poison, and my insurance policy. If anything happens to me, you still get to die. Now..." a slow, ugly smile spread over the malevolent visage that suddenly filled Sky's vision when his head was wrench back up to look at his captor, "where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?"


	10. The Sturdy Kind

If Jack had expected Bridge to find the ex-boyfriend of the deceased Amber Maitlin, he was sadly mistaken. Bridge led the way to an apartment complex, climbed three flights of outdoor stairs, and stopped before a door with a crooked wreath hanging perfectly centered around a gold-rimmed peephole. Dutifully, Jack knocked on the door.

A dark eye peered through at him, then the door was opened a crack, bound by a chain near the top.

"I don't want any," a masculine voice told him sternly.

"We're not selling anything," Jack replied, "We're SPD."

"Oh. Well. Then I guess you'd better come in."

The door slammed hard, the chain rattled, and a second later a man in his forties filled the doorway. He had to have been at least six and a half feet tall, built like a heavyweight boxing champion, yet when he stood aside, he seemed less imposing and more shy.

Jack stepped across the threshold warily, eyeing not only the man's arms which seemed about to burst out of the t-shirt he was wearing, but also the burn scarring on the right side of his face and the big tattoo of a black dragon climbing down his right arm, front claws seeming to balance on his elbow.

Syd and Z hung back, but Bridge showed no such hesitancy.

The interior of the apartment was starkly decorated, a single painting on the wall, a few pieces of second-hand furniture, an old television set. It would have looked like a bachelor pad, except that there was no mess. This bachelor left no pizza boxes, no dirty dishes, no half drunk cans of soda, nothing. It was clean enough for someone with mysophobia to live in.

"I ain't never been in trouble with the law," the man said, his square-jaw softened not at all by the dark stubble lining it or the crew cut hairstyle sitting above his broad forehead.

"I'm sure that's true, sir," Jack said, drawing on every bit of etiquette he could recall from the SPD handbook, wishing desperately for Sky because he would know the precise thing that officers were meant to say in situations like this, "We're looking for someone, and we have reason to believe you may know something that could help," he was only half-lying.

"Well, it ain't never been said that Shane Wilcox was ever much use to anybody, but I'll help if I can," the man, presumably Shane Wilcox, said and gestured towards the open area that might have been a living room if it had possessed more than a single broken down chair, "I'd invite you to sit, but you can see for yourself I haven't got enough chairs."

Bridge had again wandered away from the host, to the other side of the room, crossing onto the pale yellow tiles that denoted the space reserved for kitchen related activities. He seemed drawn to a small, slightly crumpled refrigerator. It was the only thing in the entire visible apartment that wasn't neat as a pin, for it was literally buried under post it notes and sheets of paper held on with magnets.

"Bridge!" Jack snapped, "Do not touch the man's filing system."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Mr. Wilcox said, waving a dismissive hand towards Bridge, then he smiled, "Them notes fall off all the time. There's no order left to 'em, most are trash now anyhow."

Based off of Penny's apparent age, this guy could be her father. But something about the spartan décor, and the bashful, socially awkward way Wilcox stood, not quite meeting Jack's gaze, sort of looking at the floor... he didn't strike Jack as someone able to convince a headstrong girl to live with him. He was too shy. More than that, though his first impression was of a threatening man what with the height and the muscles and the tattoos, he seemed on the second look to be a big teddy bear, hardly capable of running out on a young mother and baby. And his smile had that same bittersweet joy Penny and her mother possessed, a happiness tinted by some secret sadness that only served to make the joy more profound, the smile more comfortable because he knew what it was really for.

Still, Jack had to ask a question and 'have you got any relatives who were killed by aliens?' seemed like exactly the wrong sort of thing to lead with.

"Does the name Amber Maitlin mean anything to you?" Z asked, seeming to sense what Jack was going to say, evidently eager to get out of here as soon as possible.

"No," he said, after a suitable pause during which he seemed to search his memory for any slightest awareness of the name, "I can't say as it does."

For the sake of thoroughness, Jack specified the time during which Amber Maitlin had lived with her boyfriend and asked Mr. Wilcox if he'd had a girlfriend at that time.

"No. I scare women," Wilcox admitted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking at the floor abashedly, "I don't mean to, but look at me. I'm a monster."

It was obvious that Z's heart cracked, just that little bit. She herself had been called a monster before. Like all of them, she had been shunned by 'normal' people, who were disgusted by or afraid of what she could do. As though compelled by something indefinable, Z stepped closer and laid a gentle hand on an arm as big around as she was, covering the flame-spewing dragon's head as she did so.

"Why? Because you're tall and strong?" Z asked, "That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"My face ain't so pretty, either," Wilcox said, daring to look at Z for just a fraction of a second before looking at the floor again, "A face only a mother could love."

"We all have scars, Shane," Z said, provoking a startled look from him.

This time he managed to hold her gaze for about five seconds. Jack noticed he hadn't pulled away from Z, but he was tense, like he was afraid she might suddenly claw him with her fingernails or something.

"You don't have to hide just because some people can't see past the scars. Those people aren't worth thinking about."

"My scars ain't so easy to ignore," Wilcox said quietly.

Before Z could reply, Bridge made a pronouncement from the other side of the room.

"Bobby Wilcox," Bridge said, standing back and studying the fridge.

Shane stiffened under Z's hand, but she didn't pull away from him.

"Who's Bobby Wilcox?" Jack asked, "Is it possible that he knew Amber Maitlin?"

"I doubt it," Shane said, his voice thick with emotion, "Bobby was my little brother. When he was only... only four... such a sweet little kid... he... uh... well..."

"Died," Bridge filled in, "Casualty of an alien attack."

Shane Wilcox stared at Bridge, seeming to forget his shyness, eyes big. Bridge looked back steadily, calmly, as if he had just made a polite comment about the landscape painting hanging on the wall.

"How could you possibly..." Shane shook his head, "I mean, you're right. That's how I got burned. I was eight, Bobby was four. We were both trapped when a building collapsed. A fire. Bobby... he died. I tried to get him out... I really..." he choked back a sob.

His obvious anguish moved Z to come closer. As if he were a little kid instead of a hulking giant, she hugged him and leaned into him, offering silent support as tears sprang into his eyes even as he fought them back. Jack and Syd stood awkwardly, but Bridge seemed unmoved.

"You were saved," Bridge said quietly, "Pulled from the burning building by Red Ranger."

Shane nodded, but couldn't find his voice. When he returned Z's embrace, she practically disappeared in his arms. They stood like that for a long time, Shane trying to get his blubbering under control, Z standing stolidly at his side, letting him cry out this old grief.

"Jack," Syd whispered, "If Shane Wilcox was eight years old when this happened, it couldn't possibly be the same attack that caused Amber Maitlin's death. This would have had to be at least ten years before she was killed. Could it really be the same alien?"

* * *

The worn photo of little Bobby Wilcox was the first to be thrust into Sky's face. The four-year-old smiled into the camera, his thatch of dark hair seeming too big for him and his almond-colored eyes too wise for his youthful face. In the same way that you can sense when a house is empty, Sky knew that the boy in the photo was dead before his captor said so.

"Bobby Wilcox," was the proclamation, "Four years old. Do you remember him?"

"I've never-" Sky had to stop and clear his throat of mucus or blood or worse, "-seen him before."

"Liar!" the back of a strong hand smacked across Sky's face, stunning him, "It's your fault! Your fault that he's dead! You don't remember the boy you killed!?"

"Who..." Sky's mind stumbled, righted itself, "Who was he?"

"Just collateral damage to you. You don't even remember his face!"

The photo was thrown at him. It landed against his chest, then fluttered down to the floor. Sky watched it fall through blurred vision, struggling to figure out what this dead child had to do with him. He almost felt guilty, like maybe he was responsible, but he couldn't remember the name or the face. He couldn't feel guilty about someone he hadn't even known had ever existed before this very instant.

"Bobby burned," snarled the dark figure before him, "He burned... because of you!"

Sky sensed the hot iron before it flashed out of the dark and caught him in the left side, just below the ribs. As he felt the red heat burning into him, Sky grit his teeth, preventing a scream from escaping.

It was only a few seconds at most, but it felt like an entire lifetime, the agony of burning cut through him, through his thoughts and willpower until he finally did cry out, and only then did it stop pressing into him, but the feeling remained, digging at him like the pain itself had claws of its own.

"Why!?" Sky yelled, "Why are you doing this?"

"Someone's got to pay," was the answer, cold as ice, hard as the iron, "It might as well be you."

The iron came at him again, carving a line into his left forearm from elbow to the strap holding down his wrist, wringing another cry of anguish from him, the white hot pain leaving his mind blank, shutting everything out but unable to escape the burning agony of it.

* * *

After they left the apartment of Shane Wilcox, Jack put in another call to Kat. She had some news relating to their previous request for information. The name Bobby Wilcox meant nothing to her.

" _The alien responsible for the attack that killed Amber Maitlin and six other innocent bystanders is still in prison. I called the penitentiary myself and had someone check. He's still there. The ex-boyfriend was Harrison Jacobs. He committed suicide after seeing the news report on Amber's death."_

"Great," Z shook her head, looking at Bridge, who seemed unperturbed, "So we're out of suspects."

"I never said they were suspects," Bridge replied neutrally.

"You never said they weren't, either," Syd reminded him, hands on her hips, "Look, if we're going to keep following you around, you've got to stop making us waste our time."

" _I just looked up Bobby Wilcox,"_ Kat's voice on the radio crackled briefly, _"You're right, the attack that killed him wasn't the one Amber Maitlin died in. But, listen, Sky's father was not Red Ranger at the time Bobby Wilcox was killed. He became Red Ranger five years after the fact. Sky's father was in the academy when Bobby Wilcox was killed... guys... he was nowhere near the attack. He had absolutely_ nothing _to do with Bobby Wilcox's death, even indirectly."_

"Then what the hell does Bobby Wilcox have to do with Sky's disappearance?" Jack wondered.


	11. Still Proceeding

Jack was beginning to think that maybe Sky had just gone somewhere there wasn't good radio reception and wasn't really in trouble at all. Bridge certainly was on _a_ track, but it seemed to have less to do with Sky and more to do with the relatives of dead people who had been saved by a Red Ranger. Not a particular Red Ranger, and maybe it was only a coincidence that so far it had been any Red Ranger at all. Maybe the next party had been saved from death by Yellow or Pink Ranger. Or maybe Red Ranger was the pattern and the dead relatives were the coincidence.

In any case, it didn't have anything whatsoever to do with Sky. Neither Penny Maitlin nor Shane Wilcox had the first clue who Sky was, or his father for that matter. Nor had Penny or Shane ever met, at least not in a way memorable enough to remember each other by name.

Now Bridge had led them to a cafe whose Christmas theme was very heavily candy cane inspired. Red and white were the colors of the lights surrounding the big window and also the little window in the door, red and white garlands were strewn about the sills inside, little glasses with candy canes were the centerpiece of every table, even the employees were wearing red and white striped shirts under their red aprons. Those working behind the counter had elf hats on, the waitresses wore head bands with reindeer antlers.

"Somebody didn't get the memo that there's such a thing as too much Christmas in one place," Jack remarked, but Bridge wasn't there to hear him; he had already moved to a booth near the back where a lone man with salt and pepper hair sat nursing a glass of coke over ice with a red and white straw stuck in it.

"Green Ranger," the man said, looking startled to see Bridge, "Um... forgive me, I'm afraid the only name I have memorized is the one belonging to Blue Ranger. Unless the name of his father counts."

"Bridge Carson," Bridge said curtly, "How do you know Sky?"

"Well, uh, we met this morning at the cemetery. I knew his father," the man stood up and offered Bridge his hand, "My name is Kevin Mitchell."

"I suppose it could be," Bridge nodded, either ignoring the hand or not knowing what to do with it.

"Jack Landors," Jack cut between the man and Bridge, accepting the hand, "We're looking for Sky."

"Join the club," Mitchell replied, shaking hands with Z and Syd after Jack, "He said he wanted to meet here for lunch, but I've been here for an hour. He hasn't showed. Is that normal?"

"Only reason Sky would be late for anything is if he was called in for a mission," Jack asserted with confidence, "And that didn't happen today."

"Do you think something happened to Schuyler? He seemed fine this morning," Mitchell said.

"That's what we're trying to find out," Jack answered.

Bridge had already lost interest in the man and was leaning forward to examine the contents of the coke glass Mitchell had been drinking out of. Mitchell sort of frowned at him, but then decided to ignore him as that's what Jack and the others were already doing.

"You said you knew his father," Jack said, "How?"

"Back when I was a fireman," Mitchell said, "He saved my life when I fell in a collapsed building. Over the course of a few other disasters, we got to know each other by name and sort of became friends. Schuyler's father talked about him all the time. He loved that kid more than life itself."

"Yes he did," Bridge agreed without looking at Mitchell.

Having gotten bored of the ice in the glass, he now picked up a sugar dispenser and closely inspected it like it was a diamond and he was an expert on gemstone quality. He didn't appear to approve of this particular gem and frowned deeply at it. He set it down and slowly removed one of his gloves so he could run a finger around the edge of the metal lid screwed onto the glass container.

"Mr. Mitchell-" Jack began.

"Kevin, please."

"-Kevin. I hate to ask you this, but... have any relatives or loved ones of yours been killed by aliens?"

"No," Mitchell shook his head slowly, "Why?"

"Just a theory I had," Jack replied, "Bridge, are we done here?"

"This glass is wrong," Bridge said, having returned his attention to the coke glass.

"Really?" Mitchell asked, looking dubiously at it, "It seems fine to me."

"No," Bridge shook his head, "I don't know what it is, but there's something wrong with it."

"Well," Mitchell said, stepping out of the booth, "If Schuyler's gone missing, I guess there's no reason for me to hang around here any longer. If you don't need me, I think I'll head home."

"Sure," Jack said, nudging Bridge out of Mitchell's way.

"Nice to meet you all," Mitchell said, nodding to each of them in turn, "Good luck finding Schuyler. I hope he's alright."

"You and us both," Jack agreed.

Bridge didn't acknowledge Mitchell when he left. He was staring at the abandoned glass on the table. He appeared to be lost in thought. Or maybe he was lost in that other universe that seemed to catch his eye from time to time. He hadn't put his glove back on, and now he waved his bare hand over the surface of the table, his frown deepening to a scowl.

"What have you got?" Jack inquired.

"I don't know," Bridge admitted with obvious frustration, "This table is full of hate and I can't get a clear reading."

"The table is full of hate, huh," Jack sighed, shaking his head, "That's a new one. Come on, put your glove back on and let's go, okay?"

"Tell Kat to look into Kevin Mitchell," Bridge said as he slid his glove back on.

"Why?" Jack asked, "He's not a suspect, is he?"

"I don't know," Bridge answered with increased annoyance, his eyes flashed frustration when he finally looked at Jack, "I just don't know, _okay_?"

"Okay, okay," Jack put up his hands, "Take it easy."

"I'll take it easy once we've found Sky," Bridge growled, brushing past Jack on his way out the door.

Jack glanced at the hateful table, half-believing that it had infected Bridge somehow. But the table was just a table, inanimate, with nothing on its surface but the sugar dispenser, the coke glass, a dispenser for salt and pepper, a napkin holder and the glass full of little candy canes.

* * *

Sky wasn't sure if his torturer had gotten bored with the hot iron or if he'd passed out first.

When he came around to the alternating currents of numbness and pain that seemed to have completely consumed him, he found himself once more in the dark. His captor always turned out the lights when he left, leaving only darkness and the acidic dripping of water behind to keep Sky company.

Somehow, the worst of it was that he didn't understand _why_ this was being done to him. He almost wished he had killed Bobby Wilcox, just so there was some kind of justification for this punishment. He irrationally felt a twinge of guilt that he didn't know Bobby, though he couldn't understand why he should feel guilty about not having killed someone. It didn't make any sense.

Then again, none of this made any sense.

The SPD officer in him wanted to find answers to the questions, but the Ranger knew that was of secondary importance. Not only was his new friend likely to come back with something just as bad or worse than a burning iron, he'd already given Sky a countdown. Poison was being injected into his system at a constant rate and, if the Man of Misguided Revenge Fantasies didn't get him first, that would.

Earlier, even in spite of the minor distraction of being burned alive, Sky had noticed a metal rolling table like they had in hospitals. On that table he had observed the presence of several different sizes and varieties of knife. They had seemed like a bad omen then, but it was just possible that they were not to be instruments of his destruction as intended but his saving grace.

If he could tip his chair, work his way across the floor, somehow knock over the table and get hold of a knife, he might be able to cut himself free. Granted, there were entirely too many ifs involved for his satisfaction, but he couldn't see any other option except waiting for the maniac owner of this leaky basement to return. Of the two choices, Sky picked the one that involved hurling himself at the floor.

Throwing his weight to the side wasn't easy. It took several tries even to get the chair to rock. Getting it to tip over seemed an impossible task. But Sky kept trying and, eventually, he succeeded.

He hit the floor with a bone jarring thud that knocked his teeth together painfully. More painful was the feeling of the needle as it was ripped from his arm, more attached to the tubing than it was to him. It didn't come out neatly, but tore out, taking some of the tape with it. Then it swung free, tapping irritatingly against the metal IV stand like an impatiently rapping finger.

But worst of all was that, when the chair toppled, Sky was unable to prevent his full weight from being slammed into the restraints. They cut more deeply into his flesh, like they'd been waiting for just this opportunity. He bit his lip until the pain subsided before renewing it in trying to reach the table.

He never got there.

No sooner had his chair toppled over than the door at the head of the stairs was suddenly flung open.

Sky didn't even try to get to the table after that. He knew there wasn't a chance in Hell he'd get there before his captor reached him, so he conserved his energy, just in case he needed it later.

Wordlessly, the maniac came down the stairs. He clumped straight to Sky's chair, righted it, then swiped a knife off the table Sky had been trying to reach.

"You want these knives so bad?" hissed the unpleasant voice Sky was fast coming to associate with the words 'evil' and 'insane' before plunging the short knife in hand into the nerve cluster of Sky's left shoulder, "Fine! You can have them!"

When he twisted the knife, he also laughed.

The pain brought screaming out of Sky he hadn't even been aware he was capable of, but he didn't beg. That's what this monster wanted, and Sky wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.


	12. Before I Melt Away

**_A/N: I made a slight alteration to the opening of the prologue on Dec 10, 2015. There will be no further alterations made to the already published parts of the story except for corrections to any typing mistakes that I discover. I apologize for not getting it right the first time, hopefully it won't be too big an inconvenience and, for what it's worth, the story can and does make sense even without the correction I made._**

* * *

From house to apartment to cafe and back again, Bridge had led them from one stranger to another, whose only thing in common was a passing acquaintance with Rangers past. After Kevin Mitchell, Bridge dragged them through two more houses, another apartment, a hotel room, and all the way to a chess table in a park where they met an old man with a goatee and fondness for mint Oreos who had once had a grandson named Tommy Matthews who had been killed by a large chunk of concrete thrown by an alien at a group of innocent bystanders in order to distract the Rangers.

Besides Mitchell, everyone had lost some loved one. Mother, sister, daughter, son, father, cousin, best friend, fiance... all had been victims of alien attacks. Never directly, always as an indirect consequence of something the alien did while attacking the Rangers come to arrest it or in trying to escape. The commonality of Red Ranger was lost by the second house, whose thirty year old occupant hadn't even been present for the attack that had claimed the life of his cousin. The only other thing that all of the stories had in common was that the deceased were under the age of nineteen, most of them were younger than sixteen-year-old Amber Maitlin.

With darkness descending and without having gotten any closer to finding Sky or whoever was (as Bridge had predicted with such certainty) going to kill him, Jack finally decided to call a halt.

"Come on, Bridge. We're tired, we're hungry and we're cold. It won't do any good for us to keep wandering around talking to strangers. Why don't we go back to base, get some rest and try a new tactic?" Jack was as determined as anyone to find Sky, but this wasn't working.

"You go home," Bridge said, staring at some point off down the dusky street, "I'll keep looking."

"Bridge, come on, this is nuts," Z said, taking hold of his arm, forcing him to turn toward her, "Can't you see that? What good will it do Sky if you kill yourself looking for him?"

"You can't feel it," Bridge replied, "If you could, you wouldn't ask me to stop. Or maybe you would, but at least you would understand why I can't."

"Can't feel what?" Z demanded irritably, hunger and cold getting the better of her temper, "What is it that I can't feel?!"

"If I had the words to explain it to you, I would, but I don't, so I can't."

"Cryptic," Syd observed dryly, "Surprisingly succinct, but not very enlightening."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Bridge said, and Jack detected a hint of the earlier anguish that had floored him earlier, "That's _all_ I can tell you. You _don't_ feel it, so you _don't_ get it. So go home, okay? I'll be fine."

Jack realized he had to make a decision. So he did. He wasn't sure it was the right one, but it seemed like the only call he could make. He could tell Bridge wasn't coming home of his own volition.

"Syd, Z, go ahead back to base. I'll stick with Bridge."

"Jack-" Z started to protest, but he held up his hand to silence her.

"There's no point in all of us staying out here. See if you can't find Sky on today's camera feed. Maybe you can find out what happened to him that way. In the meantime, I'll take care of Bridge."

"I don't need to be taken care of," Bridge protested.

"The hell you don't," Jack replied, throwing an arm affectionately around his neck, "You'd still be bumpin' into walls if it wasn't for me. Now come on, we've got more strangers to talk to."

* * *

Sky had no way of knowing how much time passed between sessions. All he knew was that each one after the knife incident was accompanied by more photos of dead kids, thrown at him and then dropped into the water. Different names, different faces, none familiar.

He was being punished for their deaths. That he understood. What he didn't get was why. He didn't even know when they had died or how. For all he knew, they could have all died last week in a traffic accident. He was given names, ages, but not dates or circumstances for the most part, only vague tidbits, such as how Bobby Wilcox had burned somehow. Had he been burned before he died? Had he perhaps died in a fire? In a fiery crash? Had he been thrown into a fire? Had an alien that could breathe fire killed him? Sky didn't know, and he was past being able to care.

He didn't always lose consciousness before the monster left. Sometimes he held on by the barest thread, hovering between awareness and not, being and not being. He didn't know how much time passed then. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. How close was it to Christmas?

Time and again, he had asked who these people were to the monster, why he was being blamed for their deaths. He never got an answer. The questions hung in the air amid the pain and the screams, but they remained unanswered, dropping like water from a metal pipe to the floor.

Bit by bit, Sky was being exhausted. Less and less, he thought of ways to try and escape. He stopped thinking at all, either trying to rest between times or just survive, just make it long enough for it to end, for the monster to go away and leave him alone.

It felt as if his whole world was pain, had always been pain, and always would be. That maybe there _was_ nothing else. Hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, he at times couldn't entirely remember anything before this, and found himself wondering if maybe it was all a dream and all that had ever existed was this room, this chair, the monster and his tools of torment.

 _He's not just trying to kill me. For some reason, he's got to destroy me first. Why? What did I ever do to him? To any of them? What have I done to be here?_

As an SPD Ranger, Sky had been taught to handle a lot of things. Being kidnapped and tortured wasn't one of those things. He was a law enforcement officer, not a soldier. His training, while extensive, did not cover this scenario, because it had never been envisioned by anyone before.

SPD didn't have any secrets that were worth the risk of taking an officer hostage and torturing them over. There was nothing to be gained, and the risk of capture for the perpetrator was huge. Like regular police officers and soldiers both, SPD didn't take kindly to it when someone went after one of their own. That made it personal. And you didn't get away from SPD Rangers, not indefinitely. Sooner or later, they always caught who they went after.

Sky was such a Ranger. First, last, always. Maybe his team wouldn't find him, but they sure as Hell would nail the bastard after. That wasn't much comfort, but it was what he had. It had to be enough.

When the door opened, Sky defiantly met the gaze of his captor.

"Aren't you tired yet?" he spat, perhaps showing more courage than good sense.

Robbed of his powers, beaten and worn out, dazed and confused and alone, courage was what he had left. That and knowing he was a Ranger, and that meant more than something. It was everything.

"You know this doesn't end well for you," Sky said, not for the first time, "You know SPD is going to find you. They're going to find you, and they're going to bring you in."

"Sarah Lancroft," the picture was flung at him without his even getting a look at it, "Age fifteen."

* * *

Everything was wrong. It was all tangled up and confused and twisted together and nothing that had made sense before made any sense now. Colors weren't what they were, feelings weren't what they were, energy was turned dark and stinging like a scorpion.

Bridge couldn't explain that to the others. Nor could he explain that, each time he even thought about wavering in the search, even considered not following the next inviting trail of energy, pain would come to him, not as sharp and clear as before, just a ghost of what it had been.

He supposed everybody else would interpret it as a promise of what would be in his future if he didn't keep looking, but Bridge knew better. It was what was going to happen to Sky, what was already happening to him.

Because everything was turned on its head, Bridge didn't know where Sky was. With everything inside out, he couldn't even measure the difference between past, present and future. But what he did know, without any doubt, whatever he was feeling wasn't even half of what Sky felt.

Bridge knew Sky, knew his energy, his aura better than anyone's. He couldn't find where Sky was, but he knew what was happening, almost as surely as if he was in the room with him. He couldn't hear what was happening or see it, but he could feel it. Somewhere, for some unfathomable reason, there was someone in the process of killing Sky. A single bullet to the head would have been easier, quicker, safer, but no. This was personal somehow. This was a vendetta.

Bridge couldn't find the words to articulate it, and the others couldn't feel it.

"I've got it!" Bridge said suddenly, turning towards Jack.

"Got what?" Jack asked, staggering slightly when Bridge sort of fell on him and grabbed onto his jacket, "Bridge, what? Use your words."

"Ice!" Bridge exclaimed, "Condensation!"

"What about condensation?" Jack asked.

"There wasn't any!"

"Bridge, you're not making any sense. Now calm down and let go of my jacket."

Bridge didn't do as he was told immediately, half afraid that if he let go of Jack he would lose his audience. In the midst of all this tumbling chaos, where nothing quite made sense and wasn't what it should have been, one thing had suddenly become crystal clear but, maddeningly, he couldn't seem to find the words necessary to communicate to Jack what it was.

As if on cue, the snow Bridge had been predicting suddenly began to fall from the sky, swirling as it came down, filling the air with confusing energy, an aura Bridge couldn't see through, covering and obscuring the trails he had been following, severing any hope that he might find Sky.

"He was there! He was right in front of us! And we let him go! We let him go, Jack! Can't you understand that!? There wasn't any condensation from the melting ice because the ice hadn't melted!"

"Bridge, stop shaking me. Let go of my jacket. I mean it!" Jack pried Bridge off himself, then sighed, "Now. Take a breath and tell me what you're talking about."

Bridge opened his mouth, but never got to say what he was thinking. Jack's communicator went off and he picked it up, holding up a hand to shush Bridge.

"Syd, what have you got?"

" _We found out what happened to Sky."_

"Okay, what?"

" _Jack... you need to see this."_


	13. More May Die

"It wasn't easy to find. We almost didn't get it at all," Kat told Jack.

"What do you mean?"

"The base is monitored, so it was easy to find out when Sky left, and which direction he went," Kat replied, "But, the problem is, he took an unmonitored trail."

"Why would he do that?" Jack inquired.

"Why wouldn't he?" Kat retorted, "Most places are monitored. The few places that aren't have never been crime areas. He has no reason to avoid them, or even know that they _are_ unmonitored. It's not his job to know, it's mine. Anyway, it's not the trail he took that was the problem, it was finding out where he went. It's not a short trail, and it branches off at several locations. I had to manually go through the footage at each camera spot. Since I spent most of my day looking up names and incidents involving Rangers, I didn't have a lot of time to spend doing that."

"When we got back," Z said, taking over, "Syd and I offered to look at the cameras while Kat kept looking into records."

"It didn't take long to find what we were looking for," Syd said, then hesitated, "It's not pretty."

"Show me," Jack insisted.

Visibly steeling themselves for what they knew was coming, Syd and Z turned toward the monitor and pulled up the video captured by a camera. The angle was bad, the quality lower than Jack was accustomed to, but he could see the hooded figure lying in wait, screened from view on the trail by some bushes and a tree.

At first, Jack couldn't make out what they were holding in their hand, partially because he was busy trying to see the face behind the gray hoodie. But the face was turned away, towards the trail, tense and expectant. They knew Sky had taken that trail. Knew he was coming. Lay in wait for him.

A chill ran down Jack's spine as he realized that the only way someone could have known Sky would be coming up the trail at this particular time was if they knew him. It wasn't a part of Sky's normal routine, so there was no way to predict whether he would be there or not. Not unless the hooded figure knew him. Knew him well enough, in fact, that they knew his plan for the day.

They knew they had to take him completely by surprise, not only because he was a Ranger, but because of his ability to produce a shield at will. They waited as Sky exited the trail, waited until he went past them, until he was facing away so there was no chance he could block the blow that was coming.

Jack recognized the crowbar when it was hefted, winced at the impact, silent because the camera had recorded no sound. He wanted to turn away, but forced himself to watch, hoping for a look at the assailant's face, for something he could use to identify them. As it was, he couldn't even tell if it was male or female, human or alien. The bulky hood concealed too much, black winter gloves hid hands that could have been any color or shape.

Sky staggered at the first impact of the crowbar, nearly went down, but stubbornly kept his feet under him, even as the side of his face darkened almost immediately with blood. He was obviously stunned, the blow should have taken him all the way down, but it merely disabled him. He didn't even try to defend himself when the second blow came, probably because he couldn't. He should have been unconscious, or worse, just from the first blow to the head.

The second hit took him down. Like a puppet with cut strings, he collapsed in a heap. Though he didn't move, and there was no reason Jack could make out for it, Sky's assailant hit him twice more, once on the back of the head, the second time across the back.

Then, looking around furtively, they hooked their arms under Sky's shoulders and dragged him away.

"They knew just where the camera was," Syd said, sounding slightly ill, "Moved out of shot the minute the attack was over so we couldn't see where they took him."

"They probably had a vehicle waiting, but we never saw it," Z added, her voice a little weak.

Jack, seeing this footage for the first time, couldn't find his voice at all. Fear and rage were at war inside of him. Fear for Sky, and rage at whoever had done this. Bad enough they attacked him in the first place, went after him from behind, but to hit him again once he was down... Jack realized his hands were trembling, but he wasn't sure whether it was the fear or anger that was doing it.

He tried to take a calming breath, but it caught in his throat and he found himself swallowing down bile. Sky was annoying, he was arrogant, he was abrasive in his dealings with people, but he was a damn good Ranger, and he hadn't deserved that. Any of that.

Bridge had said Sky was in trouble, that he was going to be killed, but until now Jack hadn't fully absorbed what he meant. Now, at last, the true gravity of the situation settled on him. Through anger and fear, guilt pricked at him. He was Red Ranger, responsible for the others. He couldn't have stopped this, couldn't have known, and yet... and yet he _should_ have.

Sky trusted his leader, and Jack had let him down.

"Professional," was the only word Bridge spoke.

It seemed to float across from a distance, and Jack didn't at first absorb the meaning, still drowning in the abrupt horror of the situation, in the thought that if he'd just trusted Bridge earlier, if he'd just kept Sky at the base when they found him earlier, then none of this, none of it, would have happened. A quiet voice inside also warned that you didn't use a crowbar to take someone hostage. You used it to kill.

"What do you mean?" Syd asked, more composed than Jack because she'd already seen the video before, and was prepared for it this time.

"You saw it," Bridge nodded toward the monitor where the hooded figure was paused, "Crowbars aren't just for fixing cars. They're also great weapons. You hit somebody with one just a little too hard, and you don't just stun them, you cave in their skull."

"Meaning?" Z pressed, and Bridge sighed patiently.

"The first hit was calculated, precise. They wanted him out, not dead, and knew just how to do it. The other three blows were just as careful as the first. Do you have any idea how easy it is to kill someone with a crowbar? Especially if you hit them in the side of the head, where the skull is weakest?"

"No. I never thought about it," Z answered.

"Too damned easy," Jack supplied, finding his voice at last, "Bridge is right; this wasn't an amateur. Whoever this was, they knew what they were doing."

"They're also ruled by hate," Kat observed acidly, obviously thinking of all the things she would like to do to the creep who'd hit Sky from behind, then again while he was down, "Consumed by it. That's the only thing that explains this level of violence."

"But who would hate Sky that much?" Syd asked, "He's not exactly a charismatic individual, but this... well, it seems excessive."

"People who let hate become their God don't need a reason," Jack said, shivering slightly for he spoke from bitter experience.

"There's more bad news," Kat said after a long few seconds where nobody said anything.

"I'm not sure I can take more," Syd admitted quietly.

Jack felt that way too, but he crossed his arms to stop his hands from shaking and grit his teeth.

"What is it?" he asked Kat.

"You remember Kevin Mitchell? One of the names you wanted me to look into?"

"Yes..." Jack replied guardedly, for some reason remembering Bridge's earlier hysterical assertions that there wasn't any condensation, suddenly remembering the glass on the table, that the table had been dry, the ice unmelted in the glass, and he knew... but only half of it.

"Well, he doesn't have any relatives who died in the aftermath of an alien attack, that much was true," Kat hesitated, consulted her clipboard as though to be sure she wasn't wrong, "But, that quake you told me about... Kevin Mitchell didn't meet Sky's father then."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked, a coldness coming onto his skin, dreading the answer.

"Kevin Mitchell _did_ fall into a collapsed building trying to rescue a young boy who was trapped in the wreckage, and Red Ranger _did_ dig him out... but... Kevin Mitchell died on the way to the hospital. The man you spoke to... it wasn't Kevin Mitchell."

"Then who the Hell is he?" Jack growled, "And what does he have against Sky?"

Before anyone could pose any theories, Bridge moaned, suddenly leaning heavily on the briefing table.

"Bridge?" Jack moved towards his friend.

Bridge didn't answer. Instead, he convulsed and would have fallen on the floor if Jack hadn't caught him. Seizing violently, Bridge forced Jack to ease down to the floor with him or risk losing his balance.

"Bridge!" Syd and Z exclaimed, as Kat rushed to his side.

Jack, never a man of faith or any belief in the supernatural, nonetheless sensed in the moment that what was happening to Bridge wasn't of a medical nature. In front of everyone, without so much as a pinch of embarrassment, Jack addressed the forces beyond his comprehension.

"Alright! You've got our attention! Stop hurting him! Enough!"

* * *

Amber Maitlin.

That was the name which had broken him. That was the name which had caused him to beg, even knowing that it was pointless either to plead for his life or to wish for it just to be over. He had said everything Kevin Mitchell had ever wanted him to say and more, but none of it made a difference.

He had screamed until he lost his voice, until he had no breath left, but it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered now.

Sky felt limp, wrung out like an old rag. He had no strength left to draw on, and no reason to try anymore. The monster had won. Sky was still alive, still breathing. But it was over.

The car battery, formerly an inanimate and therefore nonthreatening object, seemed to crouch just at the edge of the shadows, a malignant blight upon the universe, hideous, evil. Sky tried to summon the energy to hate it, or even be afraid of it, but he didn't even have that in him.

Pain was inevitable, inescapable. There was no point. No point in trying. No point in anything. Nothing made sense, and there was no purpose to it. It was just pain and suffering and then nothing. That's all there was. There was no reason for him to be here, yet he was. No purpose behind the actions of the monster, yet he took those actions with no trace of remorse. No point, no reason, no purpose. Nothing.

Sky was too weak to look his captor in the eye, but even if he hadn't been, there wouldn't have been any reason to try. So he let his head hang, his breath come in ragged, painful gasps, not thinking about the past, the present, or the future. Letting go, because nothing mattered anymore.

"How disappointing," Mitchell said, grabbing a handful of Sky's hair and pulling his head back to look at his face, "I expected much more of you. Ranger, son of a Ranger."

Sky didn't bother composing a response. There wasn't any reason to try. It didn't matter what the monster said or did, it didn't make any difference. Not anymore.

When Mitchell let him go, Sky allowed his head to drop. Through skewed vision and half-closed eyes, Sky found himself looking at the puddle on the floor, the photographs floating there, slowly being ruined. Faces of the dead smiled up at him. That didn't matter either.

"I hope the next one isn't as weak as you."

The words struck a chord, and Sky found a reserve of strength he hadn't been aware of. Just enough to lift his head, to look his tormentor in the eye, to put together all the things that didn't make sense all at once, resolving them into a single thing that did.

"Next one?" Sky asked in a cracked whisper.

"What? You thought you were the only one?" Mitchell laughed, "Don't be absurd. You're not. You have to pay. All of you have to pay. Every last one of _you_."

Sky lost control of the muscles in his neck and his head dropped again, and he looked at the faces of the dead. He realized that they were familiar, distantly.

Ever since he could remember, Sky had been interested in every story concerning the Rangers. Articles in the newspaper, documentaries, TV specials, even books that mentioned them just in passing. Anything and everything concerning SPD had been consumed by Sky.

These faces, they had appeared in papers, on news reports. He knew them now, though some had died even before he was born. And now, he understood the burden he was being asked to shoulder.

These people had died because SPD Rangers couldn't save them. And Sky was being punished because he was also a Ranger. But it wasn't going to end with him. No, once he was dead, Mitchell would find another Ranger, and do this to them too. To all of them, one by one.

"Good luck surviving the night," Mitchell said, his mocking laugh echoing through the room as he clicked the light off and walked away.

Jack. Syd. Z. Bridge.

Mitchell was going after them next. He was going to kill them. But first, he was going to destroy them.


	14. Not for Myself

Left broken, beaten, utterly defeated, Sky was not yet dead. Out of the dim, dying spark that had sustained his life since the loss of his father, fading into black, the monster had unknowingly given him the strength to fan the flames, the fierce fire flowing into his weakened, battered body that fed into the truth that he now knew, perhaps had known all along but never quite been able to see.

The weight of torment for acts not committed, with which he'd had nothing to do, now became a burden he could bear. It was not for himself, but for the Rangers and SPD, to which he had devoted his life from his earliest days. He suffered not because he was Sky Tate, but because he was Blue Ranger. That was something which he could understand and endure.

More importantly, though he had no hope left for himself, no pride left to prevent him from begging for the end, he nonetheless had the wisdom to see that this Hell on Earth was not meant only for him, but for all Rangers. It would not end with him.

To lose his life was no great thing, just one less thread in the infinite tapestry of life, hardly worth missing. But he could not allow that, not when he knew that when he was gone the monster would seek out a new victim, punishing them for not being God, for not being able to prevent every disaster, to deny Death his every prize. The monster didn't want just a thread, but to rip apart the whole damn work of art until there was nothing left to hold it together. That could not be permitted.

Amber Maitlin. Sixteen.

An alien attack had resulted in a massive traffic accident. Rangers pursued the alien, who wreaked havoc wherever it went until finally, on a highway, it was defeated too late to save the lives of several people. The Rangers had saved so many, but there were those who were beyond even the Ranger's ability to help. If not for the Rangers more would have died, countless more, and even more would have been threatened by the potential for a future attack.

But the monster saw only those who had died, not those who had survived.

Blaming Rangers, all Rangers, for every accident, every alien, every attack, every death.

It had to stop. It had to end here.

* * *

Bridge wished he could silence Jack, wished that he could explain that this was not the act of some whip-cracking spirit or sadistic God who was hellbent on seeking justice at his expense, that it was his choice -and his alone- to endure this momentary Hell on Earth.

He had sensed in a moment of clarity, a blooming flower of insight within himself, that Sky was to suffer more than he could bear and, in the knife bright pain, his soul would shatter as surely as glass against concrete; Bridge had felt it within himself that he could in that moment reach out, and take on just a fraction of that private agony, perhaps just enough to prevent that fatal shattering.

He had done so without hesitation, and in the lightning flash dark and light of it, he saw for just the barest instant that other place, that place where Sky was, where his tormentor loomed over him, grinning with sick, perverse triumph. Bridge saw, for just an instant, the monster, the devil come to reality, come in flesh to rake poisonous talons across the face of the Earth, a man who had ceased to be a man for the pure hate that radiated from him.

The blasting energy wave of hate was worse than the pain. Even Sky must have been able to feel that much negative energy. Even after the moment had passed, it left Bridge feeling weak and disoriented, almost nervous, because everything was colored by the monstrous rage he'd gotten too close to.

It was news to him that anyone, any person -human or alien- could hate that intensely. Grumm himself, evil though he might be, didn't have that much pure hatred in him. No normal being did. Hate like that couldn't just spring to life overnight. Hate like that had to be planted and nurtured for years, a lifetime of obsession. It was the very stuff of which real life monsters were made.

Bridge knew monsters weren't like in the movies, werewolves bound by the pull of the full moon, vampires driven by blood-lust, demons escaped from the pit of Hell to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting world, the undead risen to eat flesh. Invading aliens might exist, but that's all they were, just invaders come to wage war. Nothing less, but certainly nothing more. Tyrants maybe, bad news certainly, but not monsters, even if the Rangers called them that sometimes.

This was someone who had let hate become his God, anger his master.

Bridge knew that in everyone's life there were many crossroads, many choices, many energy currents that could be followed or cut off. But once a path was taken, you couldn't just erase it. Even if you retraced your steps and took the other path, your footprints would remain and could be followed. You had to be careful what choices you made, because once you had done something, you couldn't just undo it. The past would follow you, and having once been there changed who you were on the inside, even if you left, you dragged it with you like a luggage bag at an airport.

You couldn't just accept anger and hate into your heart and then cast them out. Once you made the choice to open yourself to thoughts and feelings of such toxic qualities, you picked up that baggage, threw it across your shoulders, and the only hope you had was to put them down before you became too weak to do so, shut them out before they corroded your soul completely, escape that weight before it crushed you under it.

Hate, given a place to take root, is harder to kill than a weed. Once grown, it takes over your life, colors everything you think and say and do, until you yourself have become little more than a vessel for its poisonous seed, exhausting you with its weight until you can't even stand on your own.

Bridge knew something else too. This wasn't going to end with Sky. In fact, it had nothing to do with Sky at all.

Sky was only the beginning, the first sprouting pain of a plan born from evil seed.

* * *

For Sky, the choice wasn't easy. It wasn't easy to do the same thing over again when it had already failed the first time, the consequence for failure being a knife, the price of it blood. He didn't want to even try, not only because the potential for and cost of failure was so high, not only because he was desperately tired, but because what came after, even if he succeeded... it was a road he did not want to go down. He wanted, more than anything, to find another way.

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Sky heaved his weight to the side, rocking the chair. Stinging pain spread in a vicious spiderweb from each point of contact with the binding straps that held him to the chair, but he did his best to ignore it and tried not to think about the awful telling noise the chair would make when it again crashed to the concrete.

He would have seconds to work with, a minute at the outside. It would have to be enough.

The monster had made a mistake earlier. Not only hadn't he taken the knives away, he had moved the rolling cart closer to Sky's chair. Now, when the metal chair tipped, it crashed into the cart on the way down. Cart, chair and knives clattered to the floor. A blade spun dangerously close to Sky's face as it bounced off the floor and flipped over, but it only cut a shallow gash in his cheek before it landed.

Sky had struck down on his left side, and with that hand he strained against the strap above the wrist, stretching to grasp the tip of a knife blade, having to reach blind because he couldn't see in the dark, could only hope there was something in reach. The tips of his fingers found a knife and he took great care in easing it closer so he could grasp it, less afraid of being cut than he was of inadvertently slipping up and sending it spinning off through the dark.

Even once it was in hand, manipulating it around to cut the strap at his wrist was no easy feat. Sky knew he was probably destroying his ability to use his left hand at all as the strap cut deeper into his arm when he tried to rotate it enough to turn his hand and slip the knife blade under the strap. It was cutting off circulation, and probably digging into muscle and tendon as well. Sky didn't want to even think about it. Don't think, just act. The time for thinking had come and gone.

The strap was so taut that the barest pressure of the sharp knife blade caused it to snap with a dull twang. Sky immediately freed his right hand, and used that to cut his upper arms and legs free of the chair. Seconds to work with, each heart beat brought him closer to failure, as well as closer to the time when he had to make a choice, to take a path whose destination he could not predict.

Shaking, Sky crawled clear of the chair, fumbling the knife. It pinged against the floor, bouncing in the dark. Sky listened for it to fall in its final resting place, then picked it up. It felt heavy and wrong in his hand. He was trained for combat, but not using a bladed weapon. Not like this.

SPD Rangers were trained to avoid fatalities, and it was too easy to unintentionally kill with a knife. Even nicking someone risked hitting an artery, which was to allow for the possibility of bleeding to death. No SPD Ranger was given a knife as standard issue equipment.

But a knife was what he had for a weapon, and Sky knew he was too weak to win a fight with his bare hands. Hell, he could barely find the strength in his left hand to remove the IV from his right arm. He couldn't get his legs under him to walk to the stairs, and was obliged to crawl across the floor to them, then rest his back against the concrete side of them, waiting for his adversary to come to him.

By the time Sky got to his destination, he didn't have any strength left, couldn't get enough air, felt like he was going to pass out. He couldn't do this. He couldn't...

" _A good Ranger never shirks his responsibility, Sky. No matter how much he may want to."_

Sky remembered the words his father had said as clearly as if they were spoken here and now. Sky had been a little kid at the time, his father had found him in bed, refusing to go to school.

" _I don't need school. I'm going to be a Ranger, and you can teach me more than anyone else can,"_ Sky had asserted, even then knowing what he wanted, and even then knowing school would teach him nothing that he would need to know before entering SPD's Academy that his father couldn't teach better.

" _Maybe so,"_ Sky's father had replied, _"But you're supposed to go to school. It's your responsibility to go there, and do your best."_

" _But I don't want to, Dad. I don't like school."_

" _Sometimes we have to do things we don't like, Sky. Sometimes... we have to do things that are real hard. But, when it comes down to it, a good Ranger takes responsibility, and does his duty, no matter how hard it is. You want to be a good Ranger, right?"_

" _Right."_

" _Then you have to start here. You can't skip things that are unpleasant, Sky. Sometimes you have to do things that aren't fun. And sometimes you may not understand why you have to do them at the time. But you'll know what you have to do, even if you don't know why, and don't want to do it."_

It was so long ago, so far away, but it was right here and right now, clear as day.

Sky transferred the knife to his right hand, choosing a reverse grip with the blade in more on instinct than anything like thinking. His hand was shaking, his breath came in shallow, quick gasps.

At the head of the stairs, the door banged open, and Sky closed his eyes.

 _Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do._


	15. The Night is Darker

"Just before we came back here, Bridge was babbling about ice and condensation. I didn't understand it at the time, but I think he was trying to tell me that the guy calling himself Kevin Mitchell hadn't been at the cafe for an hour like he claimed," Jack said.

Bridge's seizure had subsided, but he'd either lost consciousness or gone to sleep. In any case, he was resting now. The discovery that Kevin Mitchell was dead, and the man claiming to be him was lying had led them inevitably to trying to find security footage at the cafe so they could find out who he really was by facial ID. But it seemed that the camera in the cafe had been disabled without anyone noticing shortly before the impostor arrived and it wasn't discovered until after he left.

There was, however, a time stamp on the last image the camera had captured. Their phony Kevin Mitchell hadn't arrived more than ten minutes before them. That was why the ice in his glass of coke wasn't melted, why water hadn't collected on the outside of it and run down to form a puddle at its base, why picking up the glass hadn't left a ring of water on the table.

The clue had been right there, and they'd missed it. They'd even missed the more obvious clue Bridge himself had picked up on at the time but evidently not understood. He'd said that the table was full of hate. It wasn't because the inanimate object had a dislike of being used as a cup holder. It was because the fake Kevin Mitchell had been sitting there, and his presence had lingered even after he was gone.

Jack, Syd and Z did their best to do a composite image of faux Mitchell, but it would take time for the computer to get an ID. In the meantime, there was nothing more they could do.

"I should have believed him," Jack sighed, sinking into a chair, "Bridge said Sky was in trouble. And the first thing I did was assume he was losing his mind."

"That's not the first thing you did," Z corrected him gently, "The first thing you did was call us. The second thing you did was go and find Sky."

"Yeah," Syd put in, "You had no way of knowing this would happen. None of us did."

"Dammit, we've seen what Bridge is capable of!" Jack spat, getting up angrily and then sitting back down heavily in defeat, "We know he reads energy in ways we can't even begin to understand. He's predicted the future before, remember?"

"Yes, but only once," Z reminded him.

"Once _should_ have been enough," Jack said, shaking his head, "I should have known. This should never have happened."

"Jack..." Z shook her head and put a hand on his arm, "You're not God. You can't be right all the time."

"Well I shoulda been right this time," Jack insisted quietly, "Because I made the wrong decision, Sky might just pay for my mistake with his life. You do get that, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" Z exclaimed, somewhat hurt by the implication, "We _all_ do. But beating yourself up won't help us catch the guy, and it won't help Sky either."

"Z's right," Syd put in, "We can assign blame later. Right now, hindsight won't get us anywhere."

"Hindsight..." Jack said, sighing again.

"Yes, hindsight," Syd said, "For instance, when I wished for snow, I didn't expect to actually get it. And now I feel like it's somehow my fault that there is snow, and that Bridge can't see through it. If it wasn't snowing, we could find Sky. But I don't control the weather, Jack. Even if I could, I couldn't have known this would happen any more than you did."

"You just don't get it. Neither of you," Jack accused, "Sky called me his friend. His _friend_."

Jack hadn't even realized it until now that this was what was really eating at him. He hadn't even noticed when Sky said it at the time, thinking it was part of the humor of the morning. But now, now he realized Sky wouldn't -even in jest- call someone his friend if they weren't.

Sky didn't take friendship lightly. Jack knew that as well as anyone.

Changing the subject, Z said, "You know, I've been thinking. Our fake Kevin Mitchell doesn't fit the pattern Bridge established. Everyone we talked to today had lost a loved one, specifically a child or teenager in their life. Kevin Mitchell is too old."

"Yeah," Jack said thoughtfully, "But he may be our link to finding the creep. What if the guy we talked to knew Mitchell, was a relative of his? Maybe he holds Sky's father responsible for Kevin Mitchell's death and that's why he's gone after Sky."

"Then what do all the other people have to do with anything?" Z wondered aloud, "Bridge led us to them, he must have had a reason. They've got to be connected to this somehow."

* * *

Going up, the left side of the stairs was guarded by the wall. But on the right, there was no railing. It was here that Sky lay in wait with the knife, out of view of the door at the top, counting the sound of the steps as Kevin Mitchell's boots hit them, having memorized their number during the day.

When his target was the right number from the bottom, Sky risked rising from his crouch. Swiftly, he threw his knife arm across the steps, in the path of the oncoming man. He pulled back as the man reached the step he was blocking, catching the front of his left leg just above the ankle with the inward facing edge of the knife, not only tripping him, but cutting into the leg, hopefully severing the tendon, thereby ensuring that his adversary would not get up after having gone down.

Mitchell went down with a cry, throwing his hands out blindly in front of him to protect his head and neck from the fall. As Mitchell tumbled to the bottom of the steps, Sky used the stairs as leverage and swung himself into his adversary, applying a harsh knee to the man's head as he went down.

Sky drove the attack home, landing with his full weight on Mitchell's head and between his shoulders before scrambling to his feet and lurching painfully onto the stairs, dropping the knife as he did so.

He didn't know if Mitchell was out cold or dead, and he didn't at the moment care. He had decided to disable Mitchell, hopefully for long enough to get up the stairs and call for help.

Maybe there was no right choice in this instance. But whether there was or not, Sky had made the wrong one.

As he staggered up the steps, which seemed infinite in number now, leaning heavily on the wall for support, trying not to slip on the water or blood that was either on him or the stairs, Sky heard Mitchell shout inarticulately behind him, and start up after him.

With only one good leg, leaving a trail of blood from his face where he'd skidded on the concrete after Sky hit him and from his leg where Sky had cut him, Mitchell wasn't fast. But neither was Sky.

Slipping and falling, Sky crawled the last few steps on his hands, frantic now, rolling through the doorway into the blinding brightness of a room above rather than walking through it, fumbling and grasping for something, anything, to help him get back up.

Mitchell was right behind him, one boot stomping in warning, the other dragging as he used the wall for balance, grunting with pain. On the floor, Sky rolled onto his back and kicked out, intending to hit Mitchell in the chest. But he was blind in the brilliance of the overhead light after so much time in dimness and darkness, and he misjudged the angle and power needed. He hit Mitchell, but not hard enough to make him fall down the stairs.

Mitchell yelped, tried to grab hold of Sky. In so doing, he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees on the stairs. Sky took the opportunity, flipping over and moving away from the door, finding a built-in cabinet under a counter top, pulling himself up by that, blinking and trying to restore his vision.

Blurrily, he spotted the phone across what seemed like a thousand mile gap between this counter top and the next. He lunged for it, and fell, but the phone was in his grasp and came with him.

He never got the chance to dial. One of the steel-toed boots cracked into his ribs with brutal force and he gasped, losing his grip on the phone. Grabbing Sky by the back of the neck and around the waist, Mitchell half-lifted him off the floor, dragging him back to the door.

Stunned by the blow to his ribs, Sky couldn't even struggle as he was taken through the door, set down and then pushed. Hard. Sky fell, rolling partway down the stairs like a rag doll, then sliding off to the side and falling the rest of the way to land on his back.

Sky knew then that it was over, that he wasn't going to get up again. He didn't lose consciousness, so he heard the shuddering crack of bone against concrete, the sharp whoosh of air leaving his lungs at the impact, the unhealthy smack of his skull hitting the ground, but he didn't feel it.

In fact, by the time he hit bottom, Sky didn't feel anything. Anything at all.

The door above slammed shut, leaving Sky alone with the faces of the dead floating in the dark.

* * *

"His name is Nathan Web," Kat announced.

It was such an ordinary name for such a monstrous human being. Jack didn't know why, but for some reason he'd been expecting something like Silas Hunt, Lucien Kilgore or Captain Evil. Nathan Web was so... normal. The name could belong to anybody.

"It gets better," Kat said, seeing Jack's disappointment, "He's got a clean record, if you want to call it that, but I'd guess he's been building up to this for some time."

"Oh?" Jack encouraged her when she paused.

"Yeah. He dropped out of med school after two years, failed to obtain a college degree in psychology, and was dishonorably discharged from SPD's Academy after ten months in training. His training officers all deemed him to be emotionally and mentally unbalanced to an unacceptable degree. He was also cited as being reckless and unnecessarily violent when dealing with suspects."

"Ten months, long enough to learn how to hit somebody without killing them," Jack remarked.

"Failing psychology and med school," Syd remarked, "Sounds like my first boyfriend."

"Aimless slacker?" Z asked.

"No. His pickup line was 'Have you seen my pickup? It's got a great line'. Which doesn't make any sense. Then, after about two dates, he wanted to play doctor with me," Syd replied.

"Can we focus please?" Jack snapped, "Where's this underachiever live?"

"I'll get to that. But first, the really strange thing."

Jack growled impatiently, but waited.

"Nathan Web hasn't lost any loved ones in alien attacks or accidents or anything where SPD was even remotely involved. And he doesn't appear to have any connection to anyone on our list of victims, including Mitchell. There's also no indication that he ever met Sky's father or Sky before today."

"Then what the Hell is his problem?" Jack wondered, then shook his head, "Never mind. It doesn't matter right now. Just gimme an address where this creep can be found."

Kat gave Jack the address, but then blocked him as he tried to rush past her.

"Jack, I know what you're feeling. Really I do. But you're SPD. Remember that."

"Yeah, and he's holding one of my people against his will," Jack reminded her, "I'll do what I have to."

"Of course," Kat said, stepping gracefully aside, "But make sure you don't do more than that."


	16. Hopes and Fears of All the Years

Jack took the lead on his Delta Patrol Cycle, Syd and Z followed in their shared Cruiser. The snow was still falling, and the open vehicles were soon frigid and full of white melting fluff. The streets were covered, but the Cycle and Cruiser were both powerful enough to plow through even the deepest drifts, finding traction where other vehicles would surely have failed.

In spite of this, it was after midnight when Jack pulled up to the sidewalk bordering the Web house. As he removed his bike helmet, he was struck by how totally ordinary the place was.

It was more or less square, single story, with a white picket fence around it. A plastic flamingo, mostly buried in the snow, peered absurdly at them from a spot near the front porch steps. The house was either white or some other light color, it was hard to determine in the snowy night.

Leaving his helmet, Jack plunged into the snow guarding the front entrance, slogging where he knew a walkway ought to be. The wooden porch steps creaked when he got to them, and he finally noticed something was amiss with the house.

The lights were on, he'd seen that from far away. But what he had taken for a window at a distance was actually the front door, which was hanging wide open. On the wood flooring both inside and out, there were dark red splashes of blood. Never a good sign.

Jack gestured to Z and Syd with the flat of his hand, telling them to stay back. He listened for sounds from within, but no sound came and no shadows fell across the threshold, so he signaled Z and Syd to come up to where he crouched next to the front door. Quietly.

"Syd," Jack whispered once they reached him, "I want you to check for a back entrance. Check any windows you come across too. If they're big enough for Web to get through, if they can be opened. Z, you're coming with me through the front door. I'll go first, you follow."

Z and Syd nodded curtly. Syd at once hopped the railing for the porch and jogged as best she could through the snow to get around the corner of the house.

On a silent three count, Jack threw himself through the open door, rolled and found cover behind an oppressively ordinary beige sofa. He had drawn a blaster and was prepared to fire as needed. Popping up from behind the sofa, he scanned the room, blaster at the ready.

A moment after he cleared the room, he felt Z squeeze his shoulder from behind. He watched her back as she crossed the room to the nearest doorway. She leaned against the wall near it, then quickly looked through the door, checking that the room was empty.

At her signal, Jack moved past that empty doorway to the next, noting a perfectly normal looking oak table and dining chairs out of the corner of his eye as he passed.

The next doorway turned out to lead to another part of the same room, a cheerful yellow kitchen separated from the dining room by nothing more than a high counter. But here was something.

"I've got blood," Jack reported.

Indeed, this was where the trail at the doorway led from or to. A weaving trail of red smeared across the tiled floor. There was blood on two counters and the cabinets under them, blood near the polished steel sink, and blood on a phone hung near the door. The trail on the floor lead to what looked like a nook at the other side of the kitchen, but Jack had his suspicions about that.

Z looked at the blood and bit her lip to hold back a gasp. Her first thought, as Jack's had been, was that this was Sky's blood. There was an awful lot of it, but Jack couldn't be completely sure just how much because the brightness of the kitchen made it look worse than it was, and because so much of it had been smeared and spread around, it was impossible to guess how fast or in what quantity it had been flowing from its container.

Syd arrived just then and had to cover her mouth to prevent sound from escaping.

With a nod of his head, Jack told Syd to remain by the doorway. He suspected there was another door back there, and he didn't want anyone coming up behind him and Z while they checked the rest of the house. Because Syd had returned unbidden, he knew there were no large windows or back door out of this place. If Nathan Web was still here, he was trapped.

In the hallway leading to bedrooms and the single bathroom, they found their second oddity.

The walls of the hallway were lined with family photos, but Jack and Z had seen these people already today. Penny Maitlin and her grandmother, Shane Wilcox, Rebecca Lancroft, and others.

Feeling a cold dread, Jack exchanged a look with Z. They went on.

After a blue bathroom and pastel green guest bedroom that looked like it was where Nathan Web slept, they found the master bedroom. Only that wasn't what it was set up to be.

Floor to ceiling, the walls were lined with newspaper clippings. A cork-board had a bunch of photographs pinned to it. Every clipping was a news story involving two features: SPD and death. If someone had died and SPD was involved in any way, even in passing, the story made the wall. The cork-board photos were of various SPD officers, underneath Jack found brief descriptions, listing the name, age, rank, length of service and notable citations for each and every member of SPD.

Finding Sky's, Jack saw the picture had been marked with a red X in marker.

"This was never about Sky at all," Z said, her voice both awed and appalled.

"No, this was about SPD. This is a hit list," Jack breathed with disbelief.

He turned full circle in the room, slowly taking in its reality, and realizing what it was.

"This is a hate room. He blames SPD for every death in the papers. He's planning on getting even with us. It must have taken him years to set up all of this, and I bet he's got a plan for getting every one of us, just like he lured Sky in with that story about his dad. This guy is waging war on us."

"Well, he's not here now," Z observed.

"Yeah, and neither is Sky. Come on," Jack left the room, but couldn't leave the horror it evoked.

"What sort of man," Z wondered, following him, "A human man, resident of this planet, would want to destroy the defenders of Earth? Doesn't he know that, without us, this place is going to turn into a smoking crater by the time Grumm is done with it?"

"I don't think he cares," Jack replied.

"Then he's either crazy or stupid."

"I don't think he's stupid," Jack said as they reached the door to the kitchen, "Wait here with Syd."

"But-" Z broke off whatever protest she was about to make when Jack gave her a severe look.

Careful not to step in the blood, Jack made his way into the kitchen, his blaster still drawn. He had a feeling that Nathan Web was already long gone, and the awful suspicion that the place where the wall seemed to fold away into shadows would prove to be nothing more than a tiny breakfast nook, that Sky wouldn't be here either, that everything they had learned would be for nothing...

It wasn't a breakfast nook. It was the door to a cellar or basement.

Without ceremony, Jack kicked it in and stood back around the corner, just in case he was wrong about Web not being here. No sound issued from beyond the door, so Jack cautiously peeked around the corner and into absolute blackness. Not seeing a light switch on the wall beyond the door, he doubled back to Syd and Z. Syd said the Cruiser had a flashlight in its toolbox and she went to get it.

"What's it look like in there?" Z asked.

"Dark," Jack replied shortly, "There are stairs leading down and I can hear water dripping, probably from a leaky pipe. I think it's a basement."

"Be careful," Z admonished him as Syd returned with the flashlight.

"Always," Jack replied with as much false confidence in his voice as he could muster.

He didn't want to go down into the dark. Especially not on an open staircase with a flashlight. It was too exposed, he had no idea what he was walking into. But he also had no real choice.

"Stay," he repeated to Syd and Z.

"Woof," Z replied, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

"I mean it, Z," Jack told her, "It's dark down there and the more bodies that go, the more confusion it'll cause. If I'm down there alone, I know whether or not it's me making a noise."

"Yeah, sure," Syd said, but she and Z did stay when Jack moved away.

He had another reason for not wanting them to come with him, and it had nothing to do with personal safety or Nathan Web, but he didn't want to tell them that reason. Not if he could avoid it.

Z and Syd had each had their share of hard times, most especially Z. But neither of them had seen the inside of a torture chamber and, if Jack had his way, they never would. He'd never seen one either, but he had been locked in his share of basements and closets.

Involuntary confinement, especially in the dark and for prolonged periods, it does strange things to a person. Jack was trying to protect Sky as much as Syd and Z. He knew that the Sky he found down there might not be the one they all knew. Not right now anyway.

Jack moved as quietly as he could, barely making a sound as he crept down the stairs, keeping his back to the wall on the way down, determined to feel his way, only to turn the flashlight on at the bottom when he had to, not wanting to give his position away anymore than necessary.

When he felt the last of the stairs, he stopped where he was, keeping one boot on the bottom step.

It was now or never. He turned on the flashlight and swept the room.

He had barely turned it on when he heard a low groan. He snapped the light in that direction, but couldn't see around the stairs. Slowly, he eased away from the stairs. When the beam fell on the source of the sound, Jack forgot all about being careful, setting the flashlight on one of the steps as he rushed over and knelt beside Sky, who flinched away from the light as though it hurt but otherwise didn't move.

"Sky!"

His heart almost stopped and his blood went cold as Sky uttered words Jack never would have imagined Blue Ranger would ever -under any circumstances- say.

"Please... just let me die."

"Sky," Jack repeated, more gently this time, "Sky, it's me, Jack."

"J...ack?" Sky seemed to try to open his eyes, but the effort was too much.

When he coughed, Jack saw blood run from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh no...oh man... Sky... Sky... I'm sorry. Can you hear me? _Sky_!"


	17. All the Way Home

There was no one in the room besides Jack on the chair and Sky in the bed. Bridge had gone home to his room before the team even got back to base with Sky. No one had the heart to wake him, especially not with Sky looking like he did, like someone just this side of death.

Jack had seen the worst of it, having put his jacket over Sky before the girls came downstairs. They hadn't moved him until Kat got there, knowing they could do more harm than good. Of all the skills they were trained in, medicine beyond First Aid wasn't one of those things.

Jack had seen all. The cuts, the burns, the bruises, the abrasions. Every wound poured more fuel on his rage at the man who had done this. Neither Syd nor Z had noticed the chair across the room, or its overturned table, though they had noticed the bloodied knife near the stairs.

They had seen, but probably not yet processed, the marks on Sky's wrists, upper arms and ankles, where he had been bound to the metal chair with wire that had cut into him, and also rendered him helpless. They had not heard the first thing Sky had said, the despair, the utter defeat.

With his stiff manner, complete devotion to SPD and everything it stood for, and his exceptional talent for the work in addition to long years of training, it was easy to forget that Sky was as real and fragile and human as the rest of them. Maybe more. He seemed so strong, so indestructible.

But Jack had come to know his vulnerable side as well, and was even more impressed by his stoic character each time he was granted a glimpse into what made Sky tick.

Jack himself was a Ranger by necessity, but Sky was born to be nothing else. Not just anybody could be a Ranger, and Sky was the best example of what an SPD Ranger looked like that Jack had ever seen (not that he'd ever be caught saying so aloud).

Sky wasn't meant to ever be a victim. It was unnatural. It was wrong.

Nathan Web did this. The man was a monster, and Jack intended to see that he paid for the atrocities he had committed. If they could ever find him. The trail had been a dead end, the man was a ghost.

Somehow, Jack didn't know how, Nathan Web must have known they were coming.

"Hey, Scrooge."

Jack twitched in his chair, startled to hear Sky's voice, quiet and rough but undeniably Sky. Jack broke into a smile when his dark eyes met Sky's blue ones, relieved to find the familiar soul still there and intact, if slightly drugged up on pain killers. He hadn't known he believed in souls until that moment.

"If I'm Scrooge, what does that make you?" Jack asked quietly, with a raised eyebrow.

"Mmm, I feel like I must be the Ghost of Christmas Future. Cold. And dead."

"Hey man, you're not dead," Jack corrected him, "And, believe you me, you're not that scary either."

Sky's breathing was assisted by a nasal cannula, but he required no other help to breathe. Jack was glad of that. When he'd seen the blood at the corner of Sky's mouth, he'd thought it had to be in the lungs. Listening to Sky's breathing, Jack had heard fluid, and had been sure his friend was drowning in his own blood. That, evidently, was not the case. But Jack didn't really know medicine.

Most of Sky's body was under a blanket, except for above the shoulders and his left arm, which was hooked to an IV line. Even so, the exposed arm was bandaged almost from one end to the other, on account of not only the wounds inflicted by the straps, but also a knife wound and burns as well. Sky's head was also bandaged, but bruising in myriad dark colors reached below that, and a cut on his cheek had only been stitched and not bandaged.

Sky closed his eyes, and seemed to have gone out again.

It was five o'clock in the morning, but Jack had been here all night. He hadn't felt he could leave Sky's side until he woke up. Having seen the poisoned IV line in the basement, Jack had been afraid Sky might tear his new one out in a fit of confusion if no one was there to stop him.

But Sky was calm by all evidence, probably due to the drugs. Not just to keep his fluid levels up, but preventatives for infection and also an antidote for the poison that had, for reasons undetermined, been slowly being pumped into his system.

The poison, Kat said, was not especially complex, but she couldn't figure out why it had been used to begin with. It didn't have any mind altering qualities and, while it probably burned in the vein, it was not being introduced at a level that would have killed Sky. Not unless he'd been there days, at least.

The worst of the damage, Kat had said, was that sustained in a fall. She'd said a bunch of words that were impossible to pronounce and harder to spell, but it had all come down to internal bleeding. That, Jack knew, was really bad. She seemed to think she had it under control, she'd finally had time to attend to other injuries but, when Jack asked her if Sky was going to be alright, she had been evasive.

"He's not just going after me," Sky said, drawing Jack out of his reflection.

He'd been sure Sky had gone back to sleep. But Sky had managed to again open his eyes and seemed to be making an attempt to look directly at Jack, though his eyes were unfocused so he could have been looking at a Rorschach test and wouldn't have known the difference.

"Yeah, we know," Jack told him, "We know. You don't need to worry about anything, except resting."

Sky was quiet, staring at the ceiling now, his brain sluggishly but seriously working on a problem for which it was currently ill equipped. Finally, he spoke again, his voice cracking as he did so.

"He broke me, Jack," Sky whispered so quietly Jack almost wasn't sure he heard him, "Not just Sky Tate. Blue Ranger. He broke the man first, the Ranger second."

Tears shimmered in Sky's eyes, but he didn't seem to have the strength to shed them.

"Hey, hey... you're alright," Jack said, getting up and putting his hand gently on the only part of Sky's arm that seemed undamaged, "Hey, look at me. You're alive. You survived, Sky. He didn't take anything from you. You're here, man. And you're going to be okay."

"Am I?" Sky asked, his eyes darkened by worry.

"Yeah. Of course you are."

Sky didn't look so sure, but he was either too tired or too drugged to hang on the issue. Instead, he chose for the moment to trust what Jack said and closed his eyes again, this time going to sleep for real.

But Jack wasn't as calm as he pretended. Something about the way Sky said it sounded less like a confession and more like a warning.

* * *

The next time Sky woke up, Jack was glad he hadn't abandoned him, because his earlier fear was justified when Sky came to in the savage clawed grip of the nightmare from which he had so narrowly escaped.

He cried out and thrashed under the blanket, and would have ripped out the IV if Jack hadn't been there to hold him down and prevent him from doing so.

"Sky, take it easy. Calm down," Jack wasn't sure Sky was hearing him or even recognized him.

In a frenzy of terror, Sky tried to twist free of Jack, but weak as he was there was no chance of that, though Jack felt his own strength waver when he saw the fear in Sky's eyes.

A few seconds later, when Sky looked at him again, he seemed to recognize Jack and stopped fighting back. But for those few seconds, Jack saw what Sky had warned him of earlier. For Sky, the nightmare wasn't over. It had followed him home.

Exhausted by the brief struggle, Sky fell back into sleep or unconsciousness.

Jack didn't have that easy escape, and was forced to admit the truth. Sky had been gravely wounded, not just on the surface, but underneath, in his heart. Jack felt his rage renew, and wished he could get his hands on Nathan Web, just for five minutes.

Unfortunately, he didn't have Web, or any way of finding him.

He had to admit to himself that the main reason he wanted Web had nothing to do with the man's guilt or even what he'd done to Sky. It was because Sky was still caught in a struggle, and he was losing, and Jack had no idea how to help him with it. And it was only going to get worse as Sky got better physically and spent more time conscious and less time drugged. Sky was going to remember, and relive, that nightmare. And Jack was afraid that would destroy him.

It was hard to remember that the pale, heavily bandaged figure in the bed was the same person who had just yesterday morning run alongside Jack, not merely keeping pace with him but pushing his limits, teasing him relentlessly yet without an ounce of spite, playful and lively in response to a seasonal light Jack couldn't see and warmth he couldn't feel.

He wondered how Sky found that happiness, when the day ought to have been shadowed by the tragic loss of his father, which had shaped every other aspect of Sky's life into what it had been up to now. He realized he'd had the same question when he found out that the beautiful Penny had lost her mother as a baby, that her grandmother had lost a daughter, and yet both had joy and there was love between them, filling the house with flowers that must surely have reminded them every second of what had been lost.

What did they have that Jack didn't? And could whatever that was have been stolen from Sky by Web? Was it possible for one man to steal another's joy in life as one might pilfer another's wallet?

 _Bridge would know the answer to that,_ Jack thought, and wished Bridge were here instead of him.

Bridge was Sky's best friend, and knew him as no one else could. Bridge would know what was going on in Sky's head and heart even if Sky himself didn't. Bridge was an oddball, difficult to understand most of the time and a little disconnected from reality as everyone else knew it, but at the same time he had a deeper understanding of the universe than perhaps anyone else alive, perhaps more than any man should.

But Bridge wasn't here right now. And, even if he had been, Jack sensed this wasn't Bridge's burden to carry.


	18. Always Winter

The next time Sky woke up, he was not only more lucid, but he seemed stronger too. In any case, he was able to keep his eyes open and talk at the same time, which Jack thought was a step in the right direction.

"You look like you just lost your best friend," Sky said quietly.

When he'd first come to this time, Jack had asked him if he knew where he was, and held him down until he'd answered. Sky appeared to have no memory of his fit, or of the conversation before it. In fact, he seemed more placid now than defeated, and Jack could almost pretend that what had happened was just a dream of his own making.

"I thought I had. _A_ friend, anyway," Jack admitted, "I just keep thinking that, if I'd had just a little more faith in Bridge, none of this would have happened. It's my fault you're in that bed."

Sky winced as if he'd been struck, but didn't say anything for a moment. Too late, Jack realized what he'd said, what it must have sounded like to Sky right now. Jack had only the evidence so far, no information from Sky, but he'd gathered enough to know that the last thing Sky wanted to discuss right now was guilt and blame, no matter who it belonged to.

"I'm sorry, Sky. I didn't mean..." Jack sighed and shook his head, "I don't know what I meant."

Sky shrugged as best he could with his good shoulder, feigning indifference.

"Can I tell you something?" Jack asked.

"You can try," Sky replied.

"I want to tell you why I don't like Christmas."

"Jack," Sky shook his head as much as he could all things considered, "You don't have to explain anything to me. I'm sure you have your reasons."

"No... I want you to know. I... need to tell you. Someone," Jack said, looking at the ceiling for a moment as if that would lend him strength before returning his gaze to Sky's face, "You're my friend, and you deserve to know."

"You don't owe me any explanations, Jack. Your reasons are your own, and I don't need to know them. But, if you want to... you can tell me."

Jack nodded, took a breath, and found the words he wanted.

"I never knew my parents," he began, "I guess, in a way, that makes me lucky. Since I never knew them, I can't know what it was like to lose them. Not really. Can't cry for someone I never met, right?"

Sky didn't respond. Not with words anyway. His steady gaze was clear for the moment, unwavering, patient, and without judgment. It was a rare Sky that shared this moment in time with Jack.

"Anyway," Jack went on, "I grew up an orphan. Bouncing from one foster home to another, never really belonging anywhere. I'm sure you've heard the story before, so I'll go on to the part where Christmas comes in. When I got old enough, past the cute little kid stage, nobody wanted me. I'll admit, I wasn't exactly a sweet kid. A life like I had leads a kid to become pretty cynical, bitter even. Nobody gave me love and I wasn't about to offer it to anyone because they'd just tear it up and throw it back, ya know?"

"I know a thing or two about walls," Sky replied.

"I know you do," Jack said.

Their reasons were different, but Jack realized he and Sky had more in common than he'd previously thought. Sky hadn't been willing to get emotionally attached to anyone or anything because of his father's death. The scars from that had taken time to show, but when they did it was plain Sky was afraid to get close to anyone, because he knew they could die and he didn't want to go through that again. Jack's reason was different. His trust was broken early, and he learned from a young age that people would love you and leave you when you became an inconvenience to them.

"So, eventually, I spent most of my time on the inside of an orphanage. Except for Christmas. Because everyone grows a conscience at Christmas. Suddenly they care about the overcrowding and the fact that there's this institution full of kids nobody gives a damn about. So I, and kids like me, would get taken into people's homes for the holidays. They'd shower us with affection and everything Christmas, including gifts. But we could only bring so much luggage back with us. So, I'd get to open this real neat present and be all excited... and the next day get shipped back without it because it wouldn't fit in my suitcase. What kind of gift is it to show a little kid what he can't have?"

Sky seemed fully aware that Jack wasn't just talking about the physical gifts, but the temporary affection, short-lived seasonal love that went away with the tree when it was packed back in the attic for another year. People thought a home for the holidays was a kindness, but it was actually a kind of cruelty, because there's nothing more painful than experiencing a good life and knowing you can't actually have one of your own.

"So Christmas music, tinsel and paper packages... I don't like any of it," Jack said, "It's simple as that. Those people may have meant well, but they ruined Christmas for me. Too many years of empty promises and stolen dreams. So I'm done with it. Love's only real if it's year 'round. Seasons Greetings are just a load of bullshit and everybody ought to realize that."

"You're wrong," Sky said, and he was probably the only person in the world who would have dared.

Anybody else would have just felt sorry for Jack and understood, let it go at that. Not Sky.

"Oh I'm wrong, am I? Well I got proof. A different family for every year of my childhood. All of them just the same, using my hard luck to give themselves an ego boost, bringing me into their house for a couple of weeks so they can feel good about themselves without having to deal with any consequences or having to really commit to doing the right thing."

"What was done to you was wrong," Sky agreed, "and nobody should be treated like a toy that can be just thrown away when it's not fun anymore. But those people didn't make you feel this way."

"No? Then tell me: who did?"

"You," Sky told him.

"Now wait just a minute," Jack protested, "You just said-"

"You made a _choice_ , Jack. Whether you know it or not. Whenever something happens that disappoints you or hurts you, you make a choice about how you're going to feel about it for the rest of your life."

"I don't follow."

Sky rolled his eyes and sighed wearily. The conversation was clearly tiring, but equally obvious was the fact that he wasn't about to just let this go. Sky could be a real bulldog when he wanted to be.

"When my father was killed," Sky halted, his voice giving out on him for a moment either because he was tired or emotional. He started again, "When he died, my whole world shattered. Into a million little pieces. My mother was gone, I had no other family. I went from being a happy kid with the best dad in the world... to having no one. Granted, I didn't have it as hard as you. Dad had friends, and they took care of me, so I was never really alone. But they couldn't replace what I'd lost. How could they?"

Jack didn't say anything. He knew the question was rhetorical and, even if it hadn't been, he wouldn't have had the answer. He had a feeling it was one of those questions that just didn't _have_ an answer.

"I spent a lot of time being angry, being bitter, being hurt that I didn't have a father. I was angry at the alien that killed him, at SPD for having put him in danger, at other kids for having fathers when I didn't, and at him for not having lived. But, most of all, I was angry with myself for not having loved him more while I still could. I regretted every time I'd chosen to play a video game or read a book instead of spending time with him, every argument I'd ever had with him, everything I'd done that he'd told me not to. As if any of that could bring him back and make whole what had been broken. As if any of that would bring him home."

"I can understand that," Jack told him when he paused.

"Anybody could," Sky replied, then continued, "Well, one day I realized that I had a choice to make. I could either be angry about the time with my father that I didn't have, or grateful for the time that I'd been given. I could let every memory I had of him be tainted by bitterness that he's not here now, or let them be happy memories because he was a part of them. There wasn't room in me for both."

"I can guess which one you chose," Jack said, "But I know you. I know you're sad he's gone. I know you miss him. You can't tell me you're not still grieving."

"No, I can't," Sky answered, "You don't get over or through or around something like that, even though people will try to tell you that you can. It stays with you forever, becomes a part of you. There are times when I think about him and it hurts so much I think it's going to kill me. The pain is part of having loved somebody. But it's a good pain now, because it reminds me of how much he meant to me. But that's all it is. I'm not angry anymore, Jack. That's what's different now. Look, I can't tell you what to feel about Christmas, and I get where you're coming from. But I have to say that anger starts eating you inside, changes who you are until suddenly one day you look in the mirror and all that looks back is a monster. You let anger come in, and it won't be content to stay where you put it. It'll take over, spreading like cancer to everything and everyone, until you don't even know why you feel angry anymore, just that you do. You're cold inside all the time and don't know why. Once you let it in... it's a long time and a lot of work before you can get it out again. If you ever can."

Sky's voice had started to shake as he was talking, but he held out until he was finished, when he let out an abrupt breath and went limp against the pillow, exhausted, and closed his eyes.

Sky was right, much as Jack hated to admit it. What was worse, there was no way that Jack could help Sky recover with his head where it was at. How could he offer Sky hope when he himself had none?

He realized he needed to talk to more people who'd dealt with pain and loss on a large scale. Fortunately, thanks to Bridge's efforts the day before, Jack had a long list of people he could contact. Hopefully, one of them might be more enlightening than Sky.


	19. Let Nothing You Dismay

Jack had left Sky with Syd and Z, only after securing from them the promise that at least one of them would be bedside until he returned. He didn't have to explain it to them, they had only gone to bed the night before on the assurance that Jack would stay with Sky.

The morning was bright, the clouds had gone, the snow had stopped and the sun was up. But Jack felt like he was standing in a shadow on the porch where Penny Maitlin lived, having lost his nerve before he ever knocked on the door.

It seemed so stupid to visit Penny Maitlin a second time. The first time had been awkward enough, and he had no good excuse to be knocking at her door first thing in the morning... or any time of day.

He really had no good reason to be here at all. The only question he wanted to ask was completely out of line, it was the sort of thing Bridge would ask without an iota of self-consciousness, but that was because the man lacked any sort of social awareness. Jack didn't have that luxury, and he knew how awkward his question seemed, and how unrelated to his supposed reason for asking.

Jack had decided he was going to just leave when the door suddenly opened without his knocking on it, and Penny Maitlin was standing there in a red peacoat over what appeared to be a crisp white sweater.

Jack had wondered if Penny could really be as pretty as she was in his memory. She wasn't. She was even lovelier, and the light of surprise in her sapphire eyes was just enough to take his breath away.

"Uh... I... I know it's early, but I was afraid you wouldn't be here if I came later," Jack stammered.

"I was just going to the park down the block. Walk with me?" she smiled, and it suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world to Jack that he was here, that she was inviting him to take a walk with her, that her surprise melted into a wonderful look of delight, like maybe she liked him even though there was no reason in the world that she should, and he just nodded mutely, unable to speak.

She had black gloves on to protect her hands from the cold, and as she stepped out onto the porch she produced a matching toque from the pocket of her coat and put it on her head before turning to shut the door. Jack found himself just watching, having forgotten what he'd come to say.

With a flush of embarrassed politeness, Jack offered her his arm and she took it with another of her dazzling smiles. Amazingly, she asked him no questions about why he was there or what he wanted, and she seemed not to even wonder about his motives on any level.

He supposed being an SPD Ranger made him seem more trustworthy than he might otherwise be but, even so, Penny seemed remarkably unsuspicious of him, completely without concern about what sort of weirdo he must be to have shown up twice on her porch in as many days.

Her easy acceptance of him made it easier to work up the nerve to ask the question he thought she must have the answer to, but they were still almost to the park before either of them spoke.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Jack finally blurted out.

"Sure, but it'll cost ya," she replied, her eyes bright with mischief.

"Cost me? What?"

"Depends on the question," Penny told him reasonably.

"It might not be a very nice one," Jack said, "And it's really none of my business, but... it's just... I mean... well... you seem so... so..."

"Happy?" Penny guessed, "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, if it were me... I think I'd be angry if someone took my mother from me, especially for no reason, just because she happened to get in their way," Jack stopped, afraid to say more.

Penny's smile had disappeared, and her face fell. For a moment, Jack was terrified he'd made her cry. But then she looked at him again and he was relieved to see the light of joy in her face hadn't been put out by his awful question. She didn't say anything until they walked into the park and found a bench that wasn't too buried in snow to dust off and sit on.

"I come here everyday," Penny said once they were seated, looking out across the snow covered play-scape and the more distant ice bound pond, "Granny used to bring me, until her arthritis got too bad. Now she sleeps in, but I still come here. She used to bring my mother here."

Like the flowers in the house, this park was a stark reminder of what was lost, but it didn't seem like Penny or her grandmother were stuck in the past, even though they seemed determined to keep the memory of Amber Maitlin alive in their hearts. Jack had seen people try to forget what they'd lost, and he'd seen people who were trapped in the past, holding on to loved ones who were gone, clinging to a ghost of what had been. But he'd never seen acceptance like Penny's, and he didn't understand it.

"It makes me feel close to her," Penny said, not having noticed Jack's wandering thoughts, "To play where she played, feed the same flock of ducks in the spring and summer that she fed, to swing on the swings. The parts have been replaced over the years, but they're the same swings as when she was a little girl just learning the names and colors of flowers."

"Forgive me for saying so, but... why would you want to be reminded of her? She's gone, and she's not coming back. Doesn't it... doesn't it hurt to remember her so much?"

"Sometimes," Penny admitted, "But that's love, you know?"

"How can you love someone you never knew and don't remember?"

"She was my mother," Penny said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Besides, if not for her, not only wouldn't I exist, but I wouldn't have my grandmother, and she wouldn't have me. My mother died, and yes that was an awful thing... but don't you see? If she had lived, who knows what would have been? Here and now, I have a grandmother that loves me, and that I love, and a house full of wonderful memories and the promise of a bright future in a great city where good people live. I'm grateful for that, for everything I have. I can't speak to what would have been, but it wouldn't have been this life I have now... and, it might sound awful, but I wouldn't want to trade it for anything."

"That doesn't sound awful at all. But I still don't really get it."

Penny sighed patiently, her eyelashes fluttering when she tried to think of another way to put it.

"I'm sad she's gone. But, like Granny always says, the dead stay dead, and my mother, her daughter, would have wanted us to live. We remember her, but we go right on living. If there's some sort of afterlife like a lot of people think, maybe she's watching. And I know she wouldn't want us to just be depressed and moping around, no matter what the reason. She'd be sad to know her death ruined our lives. So we live each day like she's right with us, and maybe she really is. Remembering her reminds us to live, and to remember what's important in life. She died because some monster didn't care about her or anyone else and, in a small way, because of a stupid fight over an ugly Santa."

"About that... why keep the Santa?" Jack wanted to know.

"You mean why not blame the Santa? If it wasn't him, it would have been something else. Two people let their ugly feelings get away from them and said hurtful things to each other. That Santa is another reminder, that sometimes people are ugly to one another for no good reason, or even no reason at all. But what they choose to do after that... it makes all the difference in the world. Imagine if Mom had never called Granny. She wouldn't even know I existed. There's no telling where we would have gone. And maybe -probably I think- Mom would have died anyway."

By so little had Penny been spared the pain Jack had endured growing up. She could so easily have been tossed away into the system and never found, because her grandmother never would have known to look for her and, without having first made up with her daughter, might never have wanted to take the baby on; might have assumed Amber wouldn't want that because the note they'd parted on was so sour instead of the sweet one they had actually finished with.

"There are two ways to look at life," Penny said, "There's always good and bad, in every life. But if you spend your life thinking of all the bad things, and wondering what could have been, thinking what should have been... you won't be very happy. And you'll miss out on all the beauty that comes out of the pain. We have to feel sorrow, otherwise we wouldn't know joy when we felt it, wouldn't value happiness when we had it. You can't see the true value of the good until you've felt the price of the bad. But I guess some people, a lot of people, prefer to just think that bad things shouldn't ever happen, especially not to what we like to think of as 'good people'. But there's a time and place for everything, even death. And I don't think anyone dies too soon, no matter what it seems like. My mother was only sixteen, but it was her time to go. My time will come too someday, and I intend to be ready for it. Until then I plan to live, to _really_ live, just as much as I can, because what's the point in being alive if you never open your eyes to see, never reach out and touch what it means?"

"I guess you have a point," Jack said reluctantly.

"Of course I do," Penny said brightly, "Now, in reference to cost, you owe me something."

 _Everything_ , Jack thought, because she'd given him some other way to see, a way he hadn't before, and he wouldn't have believed just one moment could change his life, especially not when Penny wasn't saying anything he hadn't heard before, just in a way that got through to him.

It was just what Sky had said, but this time he understood it. Maybe because, this time, he was actually listening.

"Kiss me."

Jack blinked, not sure he'd heard her right.

"Kiss you?" he asked uncertainly.

"You know how, don't you?" Penny said, turning away from the park and towards him, her smile brighter than ever, her eyes meeting his without even a shadow of doubt.

"Well, yeah, of course I do but I-" she held up her hand to stop him.

"So..." she said slowly, in a quiet voice, "prove it."

Without further protest, Jack did just that.

Too soon, his communicator went off, and he reluctantly flipped it open.

"Yeah, Z. What is it?"

" _Jack, Bridge isn't in his room, or anywhere in the base."_

"What?!"

" _Jack... Bridge is gone. We can't find him anywhere."_


	20. Raise the Sound

Nathan Web, of course, had absolutely no way of knowing that SPD had found out his name and place of residence. If the officers that had been assigned to stand watch on the place after the Rangers left just in case Nathan Web returned had still been where Jack had put them, that would have tipped him off.

Nate had left the house not because he knew SPD was coming, but because he had gone to the nearest hospital immediately following the altercation with Blue Ranger in the basement. He had explained to the doctor that it had been an accident, he'd left the knife on the edge of the counter and accidentally knocked it off. When it bounced, it had cut him. The doctor was obviously a skeptic, but Nate had managed to talk his way out of the hospital eventually.

Nate didn't like how many unexpected things were happening. He'd spent years planning this, though only the last six months with Sky Tate as the target specifically. The special abilities of B-Squad had upset the planning somewhat, but Nate had found his way as always. Everything should have been going according to plan, but things had been going sideways from the moment the Rangers appeared in the candy cane strewn cafe.

They weren't supposed to find out he was there until later. Hell, they shouldn't have missed Cadet Tate until at least a day after he disappeared. Nate knew it had to be the deranged one, that damn psychometric Ranger with the gloves. Nate should have known his name off hand, he'd memorized everything to do with SPD, but the surprise of seeing the Rangers where he hadn't planned for them had made him forget everything he'd learned.

Anyway, the Green Ranger had to be the reason they were there. He was the only one who could even possibly have known anything was amiss. Nate had planned for that, but not for the Ranger to pick everything up so quickly, or for the rest of the Rangers to be with him. Bridge Carson was target two.

He had to be.

Nate had predicted that Cadet Carson would pick up traces of his energy at the cemetery, which was the first place they'd look for Cadet Tate when they finally started looking at all. Even if Tate hadn't mentioned meeting "Kevin Mitchell", Carson would sooner or later follow the trail to the cafe.

Nate couldn't be there at the time he'd agreed on with Tate, because he was busy dragging the Ranger home and tying him to a chair, locking him in the basement and all. But, soon as he could, he went to the cafe with the intention of concocting an easy alibi.

Just tell the staff that he was waiting for someone, someone who never showed up. Hang around for an hour or so, then go home. But then the Rangers had shown up early, and Nate had panicked.

He'd gotten it into his head that he just needed to conceal his identity. Erasing the footage on the security cameras and leaving them disabled was easy. He meant to keep the Rangers from obtaining his real name. He didn't even think about hiding how long he'd been there. Hell, if he'd been thinking, he'd have given them his real name instead of a phony one. Having been in SPD Academy was a decent enough potential connection to Tate, and nowhere near as suspicious as using the name of a dead man.

But Nate had been rattled by the Rangers (most of all the mental one), they were there when they shouldn't be, and he didn't like the out of control feeling that had overwhelmed him and caused him to cling to the cover he'd created to secure Cadet Tate's trust.

Tate himself was another wrinkle, tougher and more resourceful than his records indicated. Nate had intentionally left him with the knowledge that this wasn't about him, but all SPD (though Rangers in particular). The point had been to leave him with that for the night, finish breaking his stubborn will in the morning. But Tate had somehow gotten loose, when he shouldn't have been able to even move.

He'd fought like a wildcat. When Nate had picked him up to throw him down the stairs, the Ranger had managed to hit him in the ribcage with a well-placed elbow, successfully breaking a couple of ribs with repeated hits. Nate had taken care of his ribs before entering the hospital, knowing that the combination of broken bones and knife cut tendons would be too suspicious for the doctors to shrug off.

And, of course, now Tate was probably dead at the bottom of the stairs.

It had been such a simple, easy, straight forward plan. Kill Tate, lure in Carson, finish off Carson, then move on to other pursuits. Rangers were remarkably unguarded when it came to humans. It was typically easy getting them to trust you. So easy. That's why he'd gone after Tate first, because the Ranger had a reputation for being the suspicious type. It should have gone without a hitch. But now the plan had all gone to Hell.

The night's snow had covered all traces that the Rangers had been to Nate's house, so the first sign he had that there had been trouble was nothing more than an uneasy feeling he got when he crossed the threshold, muttering to himself about having to clean up the stains he'd left on the porch.

The house was silent, as it ought to have been. But Nate could feel the difference. Something was wrong. He went from one room to another, initially walking purposefully but rapidly moving faster until he was running, frantic to find the source of the wrongness.

He found it in the room where he kept all his research. The papers had all been rearranged, organized on the floor instead of on the wall, and with a different orientation.

Right at the door, Nate saw the oldest newspaper clippings, so old they must have been ones his dad had cut. Nate knew they were there, but they'd been so deeply buried under the newer, more relevant stories and research he'd been gathering that he hadn't even glimpsed them in years.

Alexander Web had been a reporter, with a special interest in SPD Rangers that flowed into a hobby. He'd meant to write a book about them someday, but he was always missing the angle that would really make the story. Something was always missing and he never did write the book.

Early on, Nate had started helping his father with the hobby of clipping newspapers, but he had seen at once the angle his father had always missed. The innocent people who got hurt in the process, whom the Rangers failed to save. They were what really mattered, them and their families.

Alex had thought it was a cute idea his son had, never realizing how deadly serious Nate was. He even encouraged Nate to cut and collect the stories that interested him, not seeing that the pattern made up a single, ice-cold word: _Vengeance_.

He always thought Nate was interested to see how people coped with loss, how the Rangers dealt with failure. But Nate was only interested in the grief and suffering that was caused. The hobby only turned into a habit, not a fixation or obsession. Not until disease, not aliens but cancer, took Alex's life. Then Nate's hate flowered fully. He couldn't seek revenge for his father's death, because no one was responsible for it. But for all the people who had died under the supposed protection of SPD...

Nate had turned from the idea of writing, to actually doing something. It didn't happen overnight, but in time the idea had begun to form, and he realized that someone had to take vengeance on the Rangers (and to a lesser extent all of SPD) for what they had done. Or, rather, what they had failed to do.

While his father yet lived, Nate had taken psychology, but nothing in the books agreed with what he thought. Of course, Nate knew he himself wasn't wrong, but that he would never be able to graduate if he didn't conform to ideas he didn't believe in, so he quit. He had taken up medicine, dropping out when his father died. He didn't want to know more about what had killed Alex, because he saw at once that cancer was not something you could take revenge on, not someone to blame because it wasn't a person at all and therefore had no responsibility for anything. It wasn't good or bad. It just _was_.

And that wasn't good enough.

After his father's death, Nate had tried to get into SPD, seeing that as his best chance of taking down the hateful organization and stop it from causing any more destruction. It was always SPD that pushed, that gave the aliens someone to fight. It was their job to protect and they weren't doing it. It took two to make an argument as they said. Without SPD around, Nate concluded, there wouldn't be any more of this stupid fighting in the streets, nobody would get hurt anymore.

Angry to be reminded of his father and personal history at this inopportune moment, Nate knelt down and swiped at the papers wildly, scattering them away from the door.

The Ranger. The Ranger must not be dead. _He_ must have done this.

Unsteadily, Nate pulled himself to a standing position, clinging to the door frame, feeling the world heaving under him. Everything was falling apart. Everything was going wrong. Nothing should be going wrong. Nate had planned it. Planned it all. It was _perfect_.

Shaky on his feet, Nate staggered down the hall, through the kitchen, irrationally certain the Ranger was downstairs even though he couldn't possibly be. If he'd gone upstairs and disarranged all the papers, he would not have then gone back downstairs. He was gone, sure as anything.

Nate flung open the door and limped hurriedly down the stairs, snagging the first light chain he came to and snapping on the bulb overhead. He saw that the wheeled cart had been put back on its wheels, the knives carefully arranged according to size. He snapped on the next light, the one over the chair.

The chair had been righted and in it sat a Ranger. But not the blue one.

"Hello, Kevin Mitchell," the Ranger said, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new brightness, his gloved hands held together in his lap, "Or should I say Nathan Web? I suppose that I really should call you Nathan Web, seeing as Kevin Mitchell is _dead_ and has been for quite some time."

"What the Hell are you doing here!?" Nate practically shrieked, "Where did you come from? Where did the other one go?!" he started to back away, hysterically thinking that the rest of SPD must have the place surrounded, would be closing in even as they spoke.

Bridge Carson did not rise from the chair, merely gazing levelly at Nate, and Nate suddenly realized he wasn't moving anymore either, was just returning the Ranger's stare; only he was shaking and the Ranger wasn't the least bit perturbed or, if he was, he wasn't showing it.

"I dismissed the officers guarding your house," the Ranger said mildly, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket and leaning back in the chair, "They won't be coming back. At least, not for awhile."

"What the Hell do you want!?" Nate demanded, pointing a shaky finger at him.

"Let's just say I'm here about your ghost problem. It's obvious you're in spiritual difficulty, and I'm here to resolve it."

" _What_?!" Nate managed only one word this time, fired like a bullet.

"Calm down, Mr. Web," the Ranger sighed, "I'm only going to show you what your God is."

"Me? I don't have a God!" Nate shouted, angry now instead of frightened, taking an aggressive step forward, "I don't believe in such a thing."

"Everyone has a God, Mr. Web," the Ranger replied impassively, then appeared to change the subject without altering his tone of voice or expression, "Most people would think a heart without love is void, but you and I... we know the truth. Nature abhors a vacuum, Mr. Web, and nowhere does that prove more true than in the chambers of the human heart. You cast out love and hope and everything good in life, but you placed something on the altar inside you. Your heart is _full_ , Mr. Web, so damned full it's overflowing and it's poisoning everything you touch."

"Shut up!" Web shouted, snatching a knife off the table and waving it menacingly, "Just shut up!"

" _Fear_!" Bridge didn't raised his voice above a whisper, yet the single word bore the intensity of a shout and echoed, echoed through the basement, rang with truth, resonant with meaning.

Inescapable, undeniable, terrible, hideous truth.


	21. If the Fates Allow

"Why would Bridge leave?" Jack stormed once he was back at the base, "He knows Web's still out there, just waiting for another shot at us. Where would he even _go_?"

"Jack, calm down," Syd advised, "I'm sure Bridge had a reason."

"A reason?" Jack rounded on her, his voice deceptively soft before he started shouting again, "Of _course_ he had a reason! The problem is the idiot doesn't have the first thought for his personal safety! No doubt he got a message from the Spirit of Christmas Present about where Nathan Web is and went off by himself to arrest the guy!"

"Oh come on, Bridge isn't that crazy," Z said, crossing her arms.

"I invite you to think..." Jack said, turning to her, "...just think for a minute, about that statement."

"We've got to find him," Z said with barely a pause, "He could be in real trouble."

"In over his head, you mean," Jack corrected swiftly, "He means well, but he's got no idea what sort of monster he's really facing."

"He should have his Morpher on him," Syd suggested, "We could track him with that."

"Yeah, if Web hasn't found him first."

* * *

Bridge continued, his voice rising not in volume but condemning intensity, eyes blazing bright as twin fires as he spoke, "You're scared to death of what you are, what you've let yourself become, what you're capable of. You don't hate the Rangers because of the people that died, but that because of us people live. _You_ live. You hate the wind, the rain, the animals, the Earth, everything you see. But, most of all, you hate and fear yourself, because you're a monster. You choose to attack the defenders of Earth because you think it should be destroyed, but you won't admit that. No, you have to pretend that you're doing this for other people. Well, Mr. Web, I've been soaking up everything, everything that's come my way. And I know the _Truth_!" His eyes were lit with feverish purpose, terrible meaning, and Nate couldn't shut him up.

"You didn't pick Sky because he was vulnerable, you picked him because you and he are opposite sides of the same coin. Only he became a Ranger where you couldn't, because somewhere back there you made a choice, Mr. Web. A choice to live in fear, with fear, and for fear. You found you had a thing for tragedy and death, a special fascination with the times SPD couldn't save everyone. But you couldn't stand the truth, the truth that you loved the mayhem. So you shut that truth out. But _something_ had to replace it, didn't it?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Just stop talking!" Nate screamed, but Bridge ignored him.

"You got a high off death, but you didn't like to think of yourself as being that kind of person. So you blamed SPD. After all, if nobody died, you wouldn't have to face the fact that you're a sick kind of person. If SPD wasn't around, you wouldn't have to make the choice at all. So you convinced yourself that what you wanted was revenge. But, because you didn't have any dead loved ones of your own for whom you could seek revenge, you decided to take those belonging to other people."

"You're wrong! Those people shouldn't have died. It's _your_ fault they did! _You_ and everyone like you! They deserve this! What I'm doing, it's for them!"

"You are wrong. Whether it's spirits or just their memory living in the people they left behind, I soaked up what those innocents were giving off, just as I did with you. They don't want this, Mr. Web."

"Liar!" Nate's voice shook, and suddenly the knife was too heavy to hold and he dropped it.

Bridge leveled his gaze on Nate, that cool, detached, slightly spacey look. There was no escaping it, "All those people made a choice. They could either be bitter and let their lives be destroyed by what happened to them, or they could choose to love. To cherish the memories they have instead of mourning what they don't. Happiness is a choice, Mr. Web. Joy and love are too. And so is fear, anger and hate. You chose poorly, Mr. Web. Very poorly."

"You shut up! You don't know me! You don't!"

"I know the name of the master you serve. The others are wrong about you, you know. They think your God is hate, and I did too for awhile because it's so strong on you, like a rotten smell. But hate is no more than the messenger for your true master, anger nothing but a staff in the right hand of your personal God. That God's name... is Fear."

At last Nate found the strength to strike Bridge. He hit the Ranger across the face, splitting his lip and drawing blood. But Bridge remained unmoved, and spoke as if Web had done nothing at all.

"You're full up to here with it," Bridge indicated his neck with his right hand, "From that evil root, everything else has grown up, a tangle of brambles inside you, poisoning everything you touch. That's why I'm here, because I've seen your truth. When you took my friend it opened up a doorway of fear inside me, and through that doorway you came like Death itself and poisoned me."

This wasn't what Nate had been expecting. He didn't deal well with the unexpected, largely because he considered himself to be so very clever that he could anticipate everything before it happened. Met with things that didn't work out as expected, he either had to admit his expectations were flawed, or insist that reality itself had it wrong.

Like most people, Nathan Web chose the latter, in spite of the sheer idiocy of it. Most people denied reality for what it was, because it didn't fit what they wanted or expected it to be. They were blinded by their own beliefs, unable to see past their own flawed perception.

"Poison? What poison?" Nate demanded, "I never poisoned _you_."

"You did, Mr. Web," the Ranger corrected him, "And I can't go home until I get rid of it. You may have stuck the needle in Sky's arm, but you poisoned me and I'm so full of it I can't touch anything without spreading it everywhere I go. I let you in through that doorway of fear, but I don't want you here anymore."

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Nate protested, his voice rising in pitch as he felt something akin to panic for reasons he couldn't describe.

"I can show you the truth," Bridge said calmly, removing his hands from his pockets, "But I can't make you see. At least, I don't think I can. I can try though. Would you like to see, Mr. Web? Would you like to see the truth?"

"What truth? There _isn't_ _any_ _truth!_ You're just spouting nonsense!"

"Am I?" Bridge asked mildly, "If I'm wrong, then what are you afraid of? Why not take off my gloves? See for yourself if I'm wrong. "

"Your gloves? What about them? You just read energy waves. You've got no offensive or defensive ability. What good would taking your gloves off do?"

"You claim those people that died want revenge, that their families do too. But I can show you, Mr. Web. That isn't the case. And I want to give back the hate you offered me. Give you back everything you gave me because I don't want it. Not anymore."

" _I_? I didn't give you anything!" Nate exclaimed.

"At the cemetery, on the trail where you took Sky down, in the cafe where we spoke. You gave me your fear, your hate, your anger. I took it all in, and I'm so full of it I feel like I'm going to explode and I don't want it, so I'm going to let it go."

"Will you stop babbling in riddles and talk sense!?"

"I am talking sense. You just aren't listening."

Bridge had never before attempted anything like what he was about to do. Before yesterday, he hadn't entirely realized that emotions have a force of their own, that when someone throws anger at you, you can actually feel its impact. He'd read a lot of auras, but never had he realized that he also picked up emotions like a rock collector would pick up a shiny stone, putting it in his pocket and carrying it with him. Anger, fear, hatred, they had real weight. They were heavy to carry. Worse, it was like putting poison in a pond, a single spoonful spread to all the water and turned it deadly.

Emotions are perhaps the only thing that feed off themselves. Anger begets anger, malice brings forth malice. People often think they're throwing hostility back at someone when they respond to an acidic remark, but they're really only taking in the seed of anger, letting it grow in them and offering the original owner the fruit from the seed which they planted, which only leads to more anger.

The garden analogy works well, for a seed of anger is like a weed that will choke out all the other things if it is not pulled out and cast away. And, like a weed, it can come in on the winds of life and grow where a garden plant must be put in with purpose and carefully nurtured. Likewise, offered love once given a place to take root, flowers full in time. It is this flower we return to those who gave us the seed. No one could _literally_ return the emotion they were given. No one, except Bridge.

Pulling off his gloves and holding his hands up, palms toward Nate, Bridge wasn't sure what exactly he was about to do, only that he had to do it.

"This is either going to be the kindest, or else the cruelest, thing I'll ever do."

"What?" Nate asked, caught off guard by the sorrow and uncertainty in the eyes of the Ranger.

Before Bridge could answer, if he had even intended to do so at all, a bright flash of brilliant white light seemed to _explode_ into the room, casting back darkness and shadows, filling the room like a living presence, seeming to be everywhere and nowhere as it shot right for Nate, a tidal flood of energy seeping into his body and mind.

There were no images to go with the feelings, but Nate knew the scenes to which they belonged. For once in his twisted life, he saw. For just a moment, the truth shone bright in that dark, dank room, a light as bright as the sun itself, and just as impossible to ignore.

First came Nate's own hatred which had born itself out of fear, because though Nate denied fear was the center of his world, it was the hub from which everything else came, around which the wheel of decisions turned. His fear had turned to anger because he did not like being afraid, to hate because he did not even want to admit to fear, the direction given by a father who knew nothing of Nate's long-standing affair with this hellish false God whom he'd served so faithfully for so long.

Second the wash of warm, bright emotions that emanated from the lives that had been ended, ended too soon, brought to a savage close by SPD and the aliens they insisted on fighting. This was beauty that ought to have been extinguished in the moment of death, but which seemed to reverberate and pulse through the chamber of heart and basement, a note high as a violin string, powerful as a bass, immune to both time and space, yet illuminating each as a lightning flash across the sky lights the earth and clouds, a thing not of this world yet somehow in it, impossibly real and solid yet wholly intangible.

And then came tumbling the grief, the sorrow, the hurt, the blame of those left behind. But it was pale in the brightness, drenched and drowned in the hope for the future, intense love for those gone, joy at having known them before they passed from the world and -unbelievably- peace and contentment even in the midst of death. Not just one soul, but many, every life touched by tragedy shone brightly here, and so did the memory of the dearly departed, brighter than anything else.

For all his life, Nate had told himself he wasn't really making a choice, merely following the path laid out for him. But now he saw the myriad possibilities if he had chosen differently at a thousand different times of his life, maybe more. He saw how he had always chosen darkness over light, too afraid to let go of his hatred and anger, nurturing it because he was scared that maybe without it he wouldn't be real anymore, not even sure anything else was real, unable to touch it because of the tangled thorny wall of hate and anger he'd put up ostensibly to protect himself but really to guard his fear.

He saw the truth, coming right for him, and he for a moment thought to embrace it, but at the last second pulled back, putting up his hands as if to block it out. It hit with the force of a nuclear blast and he didn't even hear himself cry out as he was slammed backward into the concrete.

The bulbs, swinging crazily overhead, shattered, glass plinking down as the light went out.


	22. Heard on High

Tracking Bridge's Morpher led Jack, Syd and Z straight to Nathan Web's house.

Jack felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air seep into him when he realized the officers he'd left to guard the house were gone. Before the Rangers came any closer to the property, Jack used his communicator to try and contact them.

" _Jenkins here. What's up?"_

Jack was surprised to get a response at all, never mind such a nonchalant one.

"Where are you guys?" Jack asked.

" _Back at base. Why?"_

"Why aren't you at your post?"

" _Sir?"_

"Nathan Web's house. That's where I left you. Why aren't you here?"

" _Sir, Cadet Carson dismissed us. I thought it was on your authority."_

"Right..." Jack decided not to pursue that for the moment.

" _Do you need us back there?"_

"No. No I don't think so. But stand by just in case."

Jack put his Morpher away, exchanging a significant glance with Syd and Z. Bridge had dismissed the people watching the place. Had he done it under duress? Or, more likely, had he done it because he expected Web to return, and intentionally left the door wide open for him?

But why would Bridge do that? As an SPD officer and Ranger, it was his duty to arrest criminals, not give them the opportunity to get away by clearing a path for them. Jack couldn't imagine what Bridge was up to. Something which was dangerous to Bridge personally, most likely.

In comparison with other people -including Rangers-, Bridge seemed to have little to no concern for his own safety, not so much because he thought he was invincible as he didn't seem to think it mattered a great deal. Jack had at first interpreted this to mean that Bridge had low self-esteem or felt that he was worthless, but he had since come to suspect that it was something deeper, more mysterious than he himself was able to really understand, like Bridge understood something... something nobody else did.

They approached the house in a similar fashion to the first time they were here. Only this time Jack didn't send anyone around back, because they already knew there was no exit there. All three of them went in the front, with Jack taking the lead, then they took turns peering through the doors.

Jack had the uncanny feeling that the place wasn't empty, but more than that, whoever was here was in the basement, just as before. Still, when he reached the kitchen, he held that position while Syd and Z went down the hall and checked out the other rooms. When they came back, Syd looked puzzled.

"You know all those papers hanging on the wall in the back room?" she said.

"What about 'em?" Jack asked.

"They're all over the floor now," Z answered for Syd, "A big tangled mess, like someone pulled them off the wall and then set a large fan in the door and blew them all more or less into one corner."

"But the rest of the house is empty, right?" Jack inquired and both Syd and Z nodded, "Alright, then that leaves just the basement. I'm going in first. Z, you follow me. Syd, hang back here and make sure nobody shows up to follow us down. I don't want to get caught down there."

They'd brought more powerful lights with them this time. When Jack stepped through the doorway at the head of the stairs, he flicked on the bright flash light. Since it was pitch black down there, Jack knew the bright light would temporarily blind anybody lurking below.

He swept the beam right and left, caught sight of the newly righted chair, went on past, then jerked the beam back to focus on the chair. It wasn't empty.

"Bridge!" Jack shouted, but received no response.

He passed the light to Z, who held it while he practically ran down the stairs, forgetting all caution, slipping on the last step and landing hard but managing not to fall, running towards Bridge, who remained unresponsive.

Bridge was sitting in the chair, his arms hanging limply over the sides of it, his head thrown back so that all Jack could really see from the stairs was his chin and throat, which seemed paler than it ought to have been, though it was hard to tell in the bleaching whiteness of the flashlight. More alarming was the sight of Bridge's hands, the gloves removed and laid aside on the rolling table among the knives.

Bridge seldom removed a glove, and never -not _ever-_ both at once. Those gloves were what kept him from becoming lost in the auras around him, kept him from drowning in that mysterious sea that was beyond Jack's ken. Jack didn't even know what sort of awful thing might happen to Bridge if he took off both gloves. Irrationally, Jack found himself terrified that the mere act of removing the gloves might have killed Bridge, or maybe fried his brain or... or _something_.

"Bridge! Bridge, answer me!" Jack shook Bridge by the shoulders, then realized he probably should get Bridge back into his gloves where he belonged.

Maybe... maybe Bridge couldn't answer, maybe he was lost in that other realm without the gloves. Maybe putting them on would fix him. Jack knew he was panicking, but he couldn't stop. He'd already nearly lost one friend in the last twenty four hours, he wasn't able to even begin coming to terms with the possibility of losing another, for real this time.

His hands were trembling so badly it was nearly impossible for him to pick up the first glove, taking shaky breaths made it barely doable for him to get the glove on Bridge's hand, but doing the Velcro strap proved more than he could possibly manage.

As he was turning for the second glove, Jack noticed something over by the wall. He couldn't make it out through the shadows. Z had held her position so that Jack could see with the light she was holding. Seeing him turn away from Bridge, she swung the light... and revealed Nathan Web, or at least his body. Jack stiffened warily, but Web appeared harmless.

The light didn't seem to quite touch him so much as dance around him uncertainly, leaving Web's body darker than seemed possible. Jack moved cautiously towards the prone figure, weapon drawn.

When he reached Web, he nudged the man in the ribs with a boot, but that elicited no response.

Web lay on his right side, back against the wall, as if he had been thrown against it and collapsed. His eyes were open but nonreactive. He wasn't dead. Jack could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and there was a steady pulse when he knelt and felt the side of the man's neck. But there was no reaction when he waved a hand in Web's face. The dilated pupils did not contract in response to the light. Web was really out.

When he looked over his shoulder at where Bridge was, Jack couldn't help but notice that there was a straight line between the chair and where Web currently lay. It didn't solve the mystery for him, but he felt that, somehow, Bridge had done this to Web. Only he couldn't see how.

"Call Syd in here," Jack shouted up to Z, "Have her keep an eye on Web. I think he's harmless now, but I don't want to turn my back on him. Then come down and give me a hand with Bridge."

Jack stayed near Web until Syd and Z came downstairs. While Syd stood over the disabled Web, Jack and Z turned their attention to Bridge. Jack took the light so Z, whose hands were steadier right now, put Bridge's gloves on. Then he handed the light back to her.

"Bridge. Bridge, can you here me?" Jack asked gently.

"Come back to us," Z said quietly.

"Bridge," Jack lifted Bridge's head so it didn't hang at the awkward and undoubtedly uncomfortably angle it had been at and held him, "Bridge, wake up."

The first sign that Bridge was restoring his awareness was that his brow furrowed and he attempted to turn his head away from the light. Jack waved at Z with his free hand and she altered the direction of the flashlight slightly so it wasn't directly in Bridge's eyes.

Bridge moaned slightly and still seemed set on trying to turn away from something, but as Jack was holding his head and the attempt was feeble, he eventually gave it up in favor of opening his eyes.

"Jack?" his voice was faint, faraway, but it was damn good to hear him, "Where... where are we?"

"Nathan Web's basement," Jack answered, "Bridge... do you know how you got here?"

Bridge stared at him for a long time, and Jack thought he was considering the answer to that. But, when he spoke, it was obvious he was even more out of it than Jack thought.

"Who?"

"Nathan Web," Z said before Jack could respond, "Don't you remember? He kidnapped Sky, we spent all day yesterday looking for him, Web's over there now."

Bridge looked past her, past Syd, to the prone figure. He looked more baffled than ever.

"Don't you remember him?" Jack asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

Bridge didn't so much answer the question as generate more of them.

"I can barely see him," Bridge told Jack and Z, "He hasn't got any light. Or, no... actually it's more like no light's getting out. Or in. He's all locked up in a cage... no, not locked in. It's... it's more like an upside down jar, and he's a moth, flying towards the light instead of the opening... only the light's all dark... too dark to see."

"Concussion?" Z wondered, looking at Jack, who had reluctantly let go of Bridge's head but was keeping his hands nearby because it wasn't yet clear whether Bridge had full control of his neck yet.

"I don't think so," Jack said, "In fact... the only mark on him is that split lip."

As if startled by this news, Bridge raised a hand to his lower lip curiously. Or more accurately, that's what he tried to do, but he missed. Eventually finding the side of his face with his fingertips, Bridge explored around with his hand until he found his lip, and then the split. He hissed and drew his hand back when he found the raw cut. It seemed to surprise him, like he didn't know how he got it.

"Bridge," Jack said, then waited until Bridge's eyes sort of wandered over to look at him, "Can you tell me... what's the last thing you _do_ remember?"

"Well..." Bridge squinted, like that would help him remember, "I got up... it was early. And... and... the colors were wrong."

"Colors? Which colors?" Jack asked.

"Um... all of them. Everything was... well, it was like a fog... but it was only covering energy, and it was dark instead of damp. Everything was... it was all wrong," Bridge gestured with his hands, helpless to properly articulate what he was trying to say.

"Okay, moving on. What happened next?" Jack pressed.

"Well... I got up. Sky was already gone then, and... well... it was like the room was _really_ empty."

Jack puzzled over this, and later concluded Bridge meant that the energy Sky should have left in his wake was gone, or dark, or something to that effect. He couldn't altogether make it out.

"I tried to tell Syd and Z... but they talked about snow and didn't listen," Bridge flashed a brief glance at Z, as if afraid she would argue that assessment, but she held her peace, "And then you and Sky came in... and a dark cloud sort of followed you... only I didn't know what it was. We talked about Christmas and then... then Sky left. And I... I was going... somewhere," Bridge's voice had been getting stronger while he was talking, but now it trailed off and he rubbed a hand against his head.

"That's it?" Jack asked for clarification.

"No... not quite. There was... this... this bright light. It was in the hallway. I walked right into it and... someone -I think it was someone- spoke to me. Said there was... something I had to do. I don't know what it was. That's the last thing I remember."

"That must have been right before you came in and told me Sky was in trouble the first time," Jack said, "That's almost twenty four hours ago. You don't remember anything after that?"

Bridge thought for a long moment, obviously straining to recall something, anything. Then he finally sighed and shook his head, shrugging.

"No. That's all. How did I get here?"

"We were hoping _you_ could tell _us_ ," Z remarked.

"We assume you walked, but we just got here," Jack said, "Think you can stand?"

"I think so," Bridge said, but he sounded so uncertain that Jack kept a hand at his elbow while he got up, and then held him steady once he was standing.

Good thing too, because otherwise Bridge would probably have fallen on his face.

"Come on," Jack said, "Let's go home."


	23. Light that Shines on Our Lives

_Two days later..._

It was a fine day, sunny but crisp, cold enough to keep the snow sparkling but not windy enough to be unpleasant. The frosted trees cast shadows onto the snow that were more beautiful than menacing, the bright sun seemed closer than it had since the beginning of winter.

Or maybe Jack was just imagining it, because everything - _everything_ \- seemed perfect and beautiful when he accompanied Penny on her morning jaunt to the park. She got started late enough that Jack had already gone for the jog he would normally have taken with Sky, but not so late that he was starving, so they could have breakfast at the candy cane infested cafe after visiting the park with the gentle but ever present spirit of Amber Maitlin, Penny's mother.

In all of the three or four days they'd known each other, Jack had opened up to Penny more than any other human being on Earth. He still couldn't entirely define their relationship, it was almost less romance than being kindred spirits, two of a kind, at once understanding and perfectly in sync, completely at ease with one another as if they'd been friends for their whole lives and had suffered every hardship, shared every tear, and also experienced every little joy and triumph together.

Jack had told her about Nathan Web, and about the search for Sky that had brought him to her doorstep. And, after explaining Bridge's powers to the best of his ability, he had brought to her the puzzle that was his apparently precisely measured, and complete amnesia where the events of that day and the beginning of the one that followed were concerned.

Bridge's disorientation began and ended with that house, he seemed to suffer no ill effects other than specific memory loss and evident fatigue that had dissipated like the fog to which he had referred after a good night's sleep. He had no recollection of meeting Penny or any of the others, or even of warning Jack that Sky was in danger. Stranger still, the missing hours did not appear to concern him. Jack couldn't understand it.

Much less could he understand the state which Nathan Web had been reduced to. The man, according to Kat, seemed to be trapped within his own psyche, unaware of anything or anyone that was around him, physically healthy but mentally stuck in something which only existed in his mind. As Bridge had put it, a moth trapped in an open jar, lured into the light above but unable to escape because the exit was in the opposite direction. Or, since Bridge had said it was darkness that had him enchanted, maybe it was an attraction downward with the exit being toward the light above. Either way, it seemed inexplicable medically speaking; certainly Web couldn't have been in that state when he caught Sky.

It was obvious that Bridge had done _something_ to him, or else said something to induce a complete mental breakdown. But Bridge's lack of memory suggested he'd tapped into a power that he hadn't had access to previously, which had allowed him to do something, though it was unclear _what_.

"And I still don't get what all the running around was about," Jack sighed, "Even if Bridge somehow picked up your energy through Web's obsession -and I'm not even sure that's possible- why would he then follow that instead of Web? He said the snow was confusing, but I'm not sure I believe it."

"Have you considered that maybe it had nothing to do with Web or Sky either one?" Penny asked looking up at him curiously, her eyes bright as twin jewels in her angelic face.

"What do you mean?" Jack wanted to know, "We were looking for Sky, why else would Bridge have led us to you or any of the others?"

"Maybe it wasn't for Sky," Penny said sensibly, "Maybe it was for _you_."

"What?" Jack's eyes widened at the prospect, "Why me?"

"Well, after you found Sky, you came to my door. You were lost, desperate, confused, in a very dark place. Where would you have gone if you hadn't come to me?"

"I... uh... probably nowhere," Jack admitted.

"Well, maybe it wasn't Web's darkness Bridge was trying to fix. Maybe it was the hurt in you."

"But then why the pretense?" Jack asked, "Why drag me along, claiming to be looking for Sky?"

"Well, would you have come otherwise?" Penny inquired, "Because I think, even if by some miracle Bridge had convinced you to follow him, you'd probably have been sulky and closed-minded if you had known the words we spoke were meant for your heart. As it was, you listened with all of you, because all the time you were thinking of your friend instead of yourself."

"I find it hard to believe my soul searching is worth the price Sky paid," Jack said, shaking his head.

"Maybe he would have paid it anyway," Penny reasoned, "And you'd have gone to that dark place with no way out. And maybe not just you. Without you acting as the light house to lead him home, where would Bridge be?"

"What do you mean?" Jack didn't handle this shift very well.

"You say Bridge can't control his powers, that his gloves are the only protection he has. Well, he wasn't physically hurt, was he? But his gloves were off, and he was somewhere else in that moment. What do you think drew him back from wherever he was?"

"You're saying that changing my way of thinking altered my aura somehow?" Jack felt like he was having trouble treading water in this sea which was far too dark and deep, "That if I hadn't, Bridge wouldn't have found his way back? That my aura was his guide?"

"Exactly," Penny smiled, delighted to find Jack was with her as usual.

"Well, I have to say I don't know much about Bridge. Maybe that's true. Let's try another theory."

"Okay," Penny waited for Jack to gather his thoughts.

"Let's say Bridge was possessed by something, some energy didn't just hit him in that hallway, but took up residence."

"I'm with you."

"So this energy or whatever was preparing to take out Nathan Web, stop him for good, but the price would be Bridge's mind or soul or whatever it is that he's got. So... it... or maybe he... or... it doesn't matter... anyway, it found a way back for him, a way to save his life."

"You," Penny said.

"Me."

"But you weren't a bright enough light the way you were because you were so full of bitterness instead of joy (Joy is made of light, I suppose. It certainly feels that way), so you had to change so you could be bright enough to guide Bridge home," Penny said, smiling again, "That explains it."

"Yeah... I guess," Jack wasn't so sure, but he had no other believable theory.

"So, now we've solved that," Penny said, getting up from the bench and offering Jack her hand, "Let's go for breakfast. How is Sky, by the way?"

* * *

"It's less of a jar now and more of a bottle. Only instead of being made of glass, it's made of resentment and malice," Bridge explain, accompanying his words with gestures that did little to illuminate what he meant, "And it's not open anymore; he stuck a cork in it. Only instead of cork, it's made of fear," he sighed, "And, instead of being full of wine, it's only got spite in it."

With the conditioning of a Ranger and the constitution of someone who was genetically different from an ordinary person to begin with, Sky was making a rapid recovery, but he was not well enough to follow this analogy much past the first four words.

"It used to be open, so he could see all the energy around it, the bottle's wrapped in energy like a Christmas tree in lights. But the only way to come out is through all that, and he's too scared to even get close to all the love, joy and contentment there is in the world. He can't stand to see it, because that proves it's real, so he's stuck a cork of fear in the bottle so he doesn't have to look. Now he's trapped inside himself, and he'll probably stay stuck until he lets go of all that bad stuff he's got around him to keep the beautiful stuff out. But until he lets go of his hold on that, he won't be able to touch the real world at all. I can't say for sure, but I think he knows that, realizes it's a prison of his own making and that he's the only one who can destroy it, but he just won't do it."

Sky, sitting up in bed with a tray across it so he, Syd, Z and Bridge could all play cards, found Bridge's speech exhausting (not to mention bewildering), but he didn't say anything.

"I'm just glad he's locked up where he can't hurt anybody anymore," Z said with feeling, though she was referring to the asylum where Nate Web had been locked up.

Web couldn't be judged guilty because he was so tightly shut up inside himself that it was impossible to reach him, even for a verdict of his guilt or innocence. Z and Syd didn't seem to find this a satisfactory finish, but Bridge and Jack seemed pleased enough with the arrangement.

It seemed to Sky that Web had been caught by his own demons at last, and was now being punished for his crimes more severely than any prison sentence, for the harm we can inflict upon ourselves is more painful and runs deeper than that which anyone else can force us to endure. Even the most expert torturer can only scratch the surface of psychological torment in comparison with what a person can do to themselves. Bridge said, in essence, what Sky was thinking.

"Actually, he can hurt somebody. Himself."

"Well that's as clear as mud," Syd remarked, "Now quit shuffling the cards and deal."

Bridge did as he was asked and Sky awkwardly picked up the hand he'd been dealt. It was easier now. At first, he hadn't been able to even move the fingers of his left hand, could barely lift that arm, and his right wrist had been too weak to hold even a glass of water. Now he was strong enough to hold the cards and, though it wasn't easy, he refused any help with it.

The thing he found most interesting about the end of Nathan Web's adventures in torturing people was actually the physical injuries he had sustained. Best anyone could tell, Web had been thrown into the concrete wall. He'd hit it so hard with his head that his skull had been fractured, impacted so violently that he'd sustained internal injuries as well as broken ribs. On close examination, he had received almost the exact same injuries as he had inflicted on Sky when he first caught him and when he threw Sky down the stairs. Sky had a feeling that coincidence had nothing to do with it.

The odd thing about that was not just how precisely he'd been hurt, but that it seemed as though Bridge had done the wounding. But Bridge hadn't even seen Sky until later. The last time he'd seen Sky was before Web caught him, before Sky was wounded in any way. But it was like, somehow, he knew.

Looking at his hand of cards, Sky saw it wasn't a very good one. But that was life.

Sometimes you won, sometimes you lost, Sky reflected. As the cliché went, it was how you played the game. But it was more than that. Not only was it how you played the game, but who you chose to play it with. This might not be a good game, but these were good people, and that made it worthwhile.

Win or lose, these were his friends, friends who stood by him in the good times and the bad, friends whom he fought alongside almost daily, who risked everything just as he did; not with the promise of a better tomorrow, but with the knowledge that this was their choice, that it was the right one, and that because of them other people would have a chance to make their own choices for ill or good, and the hope that one day they could look back on their lives and be proud of what they'd done, with few regrets to their names and the awareness that this life they led had maybe not gone as they intended or expected, but still they had done their best.

They were all of them Rangers. First, last and always.

That wasn't just something. That was everything.


	24. Epilogue

**_A/N:_** _ **Thank you all for reading, Merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy the epilogue. Goodnight everybody, and thanks again.  
**_

* * *

 _Six weeks later..._

Christmas had come and gone, New Years went the same way. Decorations put up for Christmas were taken down, fireworks bought for midnight continued to be fired off every night for weeks after but even those were gone now, and Groundhog Day went off without a hitch, predicting a lot more winter. The snow was gone, but February was cold enough to turn morning mist to ice and kept a constant unearthly frost over the trees, grass, streets and sidewalks.

According to Kat, Sky had recovered exceptionally quickly, and at last he was able to jog alongside Jack as had been their habit for so long. He wasn't going to win any races of speed or endurance, but he had gotten the strength back in his left arm, and his hand was nearly able to function normally, though it was still much weaker than it had been before.

His gait wasn't as easy as it used to be, and he had to stop for more breathers, and couldn't make it as far, but that would go away in time. Where Sky had always adjusted his pace to Jack's, the reverse was now true, with Jack slowing down to keep in sync with Sky.

By far the most lasting damage couldn't be seen. Sky didn't just look tired because of the work his body was doing in the process of healing itself – he wasn't sleeping well, and Jack had a suspicion that Sky's nightmares were frequent and intense, though Bridge (who bunked in the same room) didn't exactly admit it was true when Jack asked him about it.

Bit by bit, Sky was letting go of what had happened, though he would never be able to entirely forget, and Jack suspected that though the nightmares would likely become less frequent, they would never go away entirely. Something like what Sky had been through stayed with you.

There were days, though fewer all the time, when Sky seemed to recall more vividly than was healthy, and on those days he could be depressed and harder than usual to get along with. In internal pain that was deeper than the physical, Sky would at those times lash out or practice avoidance. Sometimes he would seem hopeless about it, as if he would never get the confidence and trust back that had been lost.

On those days, Jack would remind him that Nathan Web may have taken him prisoner, may have tortured him, psychologically tormented him in ways he hadn't described to anyone, but Sky didn't have to let that experience rule him. It was his choice how he viewed it. He could either relive the horror every day and be afraid that it might happen again, or he could dwell on the fact that he had been to Hell, had looked the Devil square in the eye and come out alive. That wasn't nothing.

Jack figured it hadn't only been Bridge's life that had been saved by his meeting Penny. If not for that day of seeing person after person who'd been through Hell and come out with their joy in life intact, he wouldn't have had the first idea about how to talk to Sky or help him on his darkest days. If not for that, Jack would still be where he'd been at the start of all this, still angry and not really knowing why, choosing to let himself be defined by what others had done to him without realizing it.

He couldn't undo all those feelings at once, not after years of nurturing the disappointment, envy, bitterness and resentment that had been planted in his heart so long ago. But he was working on it, on letting go of those feelings one by one, and he knew someday he would look back and realize he wasn't angry anymore. And, who knew, maybe he'd someday even know why he'd had to endure that pain for all those years. Someday, maybe. If he was lucky.

Jack and Sky paused at the top of a steep incline in the trail, where they could look through the frozen trees which lined it on one side to see the nearby city from a distance. From up here, it seemed very small. Somehow, the world always seemed a little bigger when you saw a city from a distance. Even though the city was small, you realized just how many were in the world, and how much space was between them and how many people lived there and how very many depended on SPD for their lives and freedoms. So many threads, more than could be counted in a hundred years.

And yet each thread was precious beyond compare, each light brightened an otherwise dark world. To cut any of them too soon was to lessen the beauty and wonder of it all, to change forever the very fabric of reality, time and space. But even when a thread was cut, life spun on, and the picture was forever a mystery, a terrifying, beautiful, awesome mystery.

Glancing at Sky, Jack saw that his friend was breathing more heavily than would have been the case. Sky's eyes were gazing far off, his face looked tense. He was thinking, and there was darkness coming into his eyes because of it.

"You sure you're alright?" Jack asked, pretending to notice only Sky's harsh breathing and not his tension.

Sky didn't respond for a long moment. He feigned needing to catch his breath first, but Jack knew Sky was actually gathering his thoughts away from whatever dark precipice his mind had come to when they'd stopped. Sky sighed, but the weariness of it was not a physical weight on him.

"I've been shattered before," Sky said quietly, not looking Jack's way, "I can put the pieces back together."

Jack had not been talking about the jogging, and Sky was not talking about his bones. Jack believed Sky. Sky was tough, determined and willful. Web made have knocked him down, but Sky was the sort of person who always got back up, who kept fighting even with the odds against him. That resilience and courage would see him through and, if even that was not enough, there were people he could rely on to help him if he stumbled.

"Here," Sky tossed a small box he'd taken out of his pocket and Jack caught it.

"What's this?"

"A late Christmas present," Sky replied, then held up his hands to silence whatever was about to come out of Jack's mouth, "Here's the deal; you can either let the past make you unhappy, or you can put it where it belongs: in the past. If you open that, you'll be opening yourself to something really nice, and I'm not talking about what's in the box. I'm talking about a time of the year that's very special to a lot of people. But, if you want, you can leave it unopened."

"What happens then?" Jack inquired.

"Out of respect for you and what you've been through, I'll never mention it again," Sky said simply.

"What is it?" Jack asked, inspecting the green paper and red ribbon.

"That's the beauty of the future, Jack," Sky said with an amused grin.

Hearing shoe treads crunching on gravel, Jack looked up sharply from the box to see that Sky had begun to jog again and was leaving him behind. As Jack stuffed the box in his jacket pocket, Sky tossed the end of his thought over his shoulder.

"You don't get to find out for sure until you're on the other side, when the future becomes the present."

"Oh you did _not_ just make that joke!" Jack shouted, "Get back here!"

* * *

In the evening, after a battle with Grumm's army which the Rangers had emerged victorious from, Jack found himself sitting at the table in the common area, the book he'd never managed to finish sitting on it next to the as yet unopened gift, his elbows resting on the table, chin on his interlaced fingers.

It didn't make any sense to be afraid of the gift. He knew full well that this one would not be taken away from him, that he would be able to keep it. And yet year upon year of bitter experience weighed on him, and he was afraid to open it, scared to death he'd actually like it, absolutely terrified of the change that would come about if that proved to be the case.

On the other hand, he was curious. He didn't just want to know what Sky had gotten for him, of course. He also wanted to know what it felt like. He knew what Christmas looked like from the other side, but though he could see what the others felt, he couldn't feel it for himself because he was on the outside looking in. They all had something that he didn't, and he wanted to know what that was.

But change isn't easy. Changing how you feel about something means changing what you believe, and that's hard. Nothing terrifies people so much as the amorphous unknown, and nothing is more unknown than change, because you can't know the full effect it will have until after you've already done it. Even if you're wildly, miserably unhappy, living with that is often easier than actually doing something to change it, because the unhappiness and misery is known and it is therefore -no matter how painful it may be- more comfortable than anything else, because everything else is unknown.

"I don't think you'll like how the story ends."

Jack looked up in surprise. He wasn't sure how long Bridge had been standing there, and was so lost in his own thoughts that he had trouble understanding what Bridge's remark related to.

"What?"

"The book," Bridge nodded towards the paperback, "It doesn't have a happy ending."

"Oh," Jack said, looking at the book, having forgotten it was even there, "I don't suppose you'll give me a spoiler, will you?"

Bridge slid into the chair across from Jack, and didn't respond until he'd settled comfortably.

"You wouldn't want to read it if I did that," Bridge said.

"What's the point in reading it if I won't like it?" Jack inquired.

"How do you know you won't like it?" Bridge returned.

"Well, you just said-" Jack didn't get to finish because Bridge interrupted him.

"I said you wouldn't like the ending," Bridge said, "But that doesn't mean there's nothing in it that's worth thinking about. And you can't think about something you haven't read."

"Oh great, and here I was trying to decide between the book and the gift, and it turns out they're both the present," Jack sighed dejectedly, leaning back in his chair, "I don't suppose _you_ know what I should do."

"Are you kidding? I barely know what I _am_ doing half the time, much less what I _should_ be doing."

"You seemed to know well enough when it came to Nathan Web," Jack remarked.

"I don't get to choose what I see," Bridge replied, "Only what I do with it."

"Way to avoid making sense for an entire conversation," Jack said.

Bridge shrugged and got up from the table. But before he started walking away, he turned back to Jack and gazed at him thoughtfully for a long moment.

"It seems to me that, at this particular crossroad, you are being given a very unusual opportunity."

"How so?"

"You get to choose not only what you're going to do next, but also what you're going to see. That's a rare gift," with these enigmatic words hanging in the air, Bridge walked away, leaving Jack still sitting with the book and the green wrapped, red ribbon tied package...

We don't get to choose how and when we die. Even when someone decides to cut the thin thread that binds life to this Earth, in their heart they are already dead, it is this death of soul that brings the destruction of flesh and bone which follows. When death comes, it does so in the time and place of its own choosing, the beginning and the end are the only points of life where we are without choice, when the cold hand of Fate lays itself upon our shoulder and removes all options.

But what we do in between, that's up to us. Who we are does not not begin with conception nor end with death, but shows itself in the tapestry of our lives, in the choices we make in the time we are given, the places we go in our hearts and minds with the gifts and curses offered by life.

We make countless choices every single day. Whether to hit the snooze alarm one more time, what to have for breakfast, whether or not to even have breakfast, what we wear, what we have with our morning coffee, what radio station we listen to on the way to work, what we say to someone when we answer the phone, which websites we visit, how we react to something we read on the internet, if we go out for a drink after work, where we go and who we go with, what we do on our day off, how often we call our mother, who we let into our lives as friends, whether or not we lie about our age if someone asks, what games we play and who we play them with and how long we play them.

We don't get to choose how we are born, how we die or what happens to us between times, but we _do_ get to choose how we live. Every choice we make, big or small, becomes a part of who we are; a letter in a word in a paragraph on a page in a chapter in the story of our lives. It might not seem like much, until you realize there's only one letter difference between Dead and Read, Here and There, If and Is, Grave and Grace. All of a sudden, that one little tiny, insignificant letter makes all the difference in the world...

Slowly, with much uncertainty, Jack reached out and picked up the present, at last both letting go and holding on, capturing both the past and the future in a moment of time, choosing on this day to look towards the great unknown with hope instead of fear.

It was more than something. It was everything.

 **THE END**

* * *

" _The Present is the point at which time touches eternity."  
-_The Screwtape Letters _ **(C.S. Lewis)**  
_


End file.
